


But All He Was Is Overworn

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock/Supernatural Crossover, season 3 disregarded, season 9 disregarded, superlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1201978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had not been himself lately. Sherlock was worried, but he couldn't foresee the advent of two brothers and an ex-angel. Sherlock and Supernatural Crossover, Post-Reichenbach and Season 8. Season 3 and Season 9 disregarded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes never worried.

Or at least that was what he preferred people to believe.

Even after he had returned from the dead, he chose only to explain to a select few – John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mike Stamford – what had happened. He simply didn't care what other people thought of him.

And he didn't care about other people.

He'd learned at an early age that caring was a disadvantage.

He didn't care. He wouldn't care. Mycroft had told Moriarty his life story, and while he understood why, he simply refused to –

Sherlock sighed and slowly put the sample he'd been studying away. He couldn't pretend anymore.

Sherlock Holmes was worried. About his brother, of all people.

Mycroft had been acting –

If it had been anyone else, Sherlock would have thought he'd been acting "strange". But Mycroft didn't act strange. He was Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, and he always did what was best for the country.

Even if it meant betraying his brother.

Sherlock wasn't angry at Mycroft; he never had been. From a very early age, he had known that Mycroft only cared about his position and that he'd never be able to change that.

John had been angry; had refused to speak to Mycroft in the three years he'd been gone. But John was an emotional man; he would never understand his brother's reasoning. Just like he hadn't understood why Mycroft had simply accepted he was alive when Sherlock had let him know after a year, had just sent him the information he asked for and not demanded answers or wanted to know where he was.

John would never understand because he couldn't. Sherlock's and Mycroft's relationship had always been complicated, to say the least. His brother was more intelligent than him – which he grudgingly accepted – but he was also, for lack of a better word, colder. It was unlikely that he would ever meet someone who would change him, like John had Sherlock; he would never give up his life for his friends. In a way, he was everything Sherlock wanted and yet dreaded to be.

Mycroft's betrayal had hurt, he wouldn't deny it. Although he'd never admitted it to someone other than John. Greg had grown to close to Mycroft since he'd left; he wouldn't risk their friendship. Mycroft would most likely scoff at his reasoning. He didn't care. It was strange enough that he was friends with Greg to begin with. Sherlock had decided not to question it. Mycroft had been alone, if not lonely (he doubted his brother would ever admit to feeling lonely) for a long time. He deserved a friend. Maybe, just maybe, Greg could be to him what John had been to Sherlock, even though the consulting detective doubted it.

Ever since he had returned and John had moved back into 221B, Mycroft had visited them sporadically, more often than not because he wanted Sherlock to take a case. But he had come when John was gone, or too tired to care, or when he'd known his visit would be very short. John was still angry and Mycroft had known it. When he hadn't been able to avoid seeing John, or rather John seeing him, he had always been polite and to the point.

He had cared that John was angry; he had cared that Sherlock cared that John was angry.

Not only that, but he had simply cared. He had cared about his country, he had perhaps even cared about Sherlock, he had cared about the memory of a little boy who'd run around the garden of a mansion, demanding he tell him everything he knew about pirates.

Not anymore.

When Mycroft had once again visited him and John and Sherlock could have sworn his eyes looked –

Empty. Almost black for a minute.

Not only that, but his voice had sounded – wrong, too. Mycroft had always been polite to a fault, calm, controlled. But he'd never sounded this flat.

And from this moment, he had known.

Something was wrong with his brother. And no one could convince him otherwise.

He hadn't talked to John about it. Yet. He knew he would eventually have to tell his best friend what was going on, but right now, he didn't have any proof that something was wrong with Mycroft, and the doctor would probably laugh if he suggested that believed him to be sick or at least not well because he was too cold.

He couldn't call Anthea, or whatever she chose to call herself this week either; Mycroft kept as close an eye on his employees, at least the important ones, as on Sherlock and his friends.

There was one other person he could call, though, one other person who was Mycroft's friend as well as his.

Greg picked up immediately, but, as Sherlock reminded himself, that didn't need to be a sign that he was worried. The DI was his friend, had been for longer than the consulting detective cared to admit; naturally he would pick up the phone when he called.

Suddenly (and he was ashamed that he hadn't thought of it sooner) Sherlock realized that he couldn't say anything, at least not over the phone. Mycroft had access to every security camera in London, and he could lip-read. Furthermore, Sherlock was rather sure he had installed cameras in 221B too. He had found nothing when he'd searched the flat, and Mrs. Hudson had sworn that no pretend handyman had made it past her after his fake suicide, it was true, but this was Mycroft they were talking about. He had his eyes everywhere.

He had been blinded by sentiment; he couldn't just call Greg and expect Mycroft not to notice. He couldn't just call anyone and tell them that he was worried about his brother. He would know immediately.

So he said in his usual tone, "I don't suppose you have any cases for me? Interesting ones, I mean?"

He hoped Greg would notice the different wording. Normally he asked for "interesting cases" and didn't need another sentence to specify what he meant.

The DI sighed and he thought he'd failed to get his point across, when Greg answered, "You know I don't have anything for you" and emphasised the "anything" just a little too strongly.

And just like that Sherlock knew he'd been understood.

More than that, Greg apparently knew that they were being listened too or watched because he cleared his throat and asked, "Tell John to call me, will you? We haven't gone for a pint in ages" before he hung up.

Sherlock had to admit he was impressed. Greg knew that Mycroft had never stopped their surveillance, but that he likely wouldn't pay too much attention when he and John went to the pub, as was their custom.

It meant he was worried too. And he was the person who knew Mycroft best next to Sherlock.

Or rather, knew him as well as could be expected while not working for him.

Anyway, he quickly passed the message on to John with an expressive look. He knew his friend would understand that he needed him to meet Greg. The doctor just nodded and smiled, plus he briefly touched his shoulder on his way to the kitchen. He only ever did that when he realized Sherlock didn't want to give anything away for the cameras. Once more, he found himself thankful to have found a friend who understood him.

John left that very evening to meet Greg; Sherlock tried to concentrate on the experiment he was conducting, but this urgency of Greg's made him uneasy.

He couldn't shake the hope he was wrong, and he didn't want to; although he knew caring was a disadvantage, he had decided to care. Almost four years ago when he pretended to commit suicide. He couldn't act like he didn't care now; not only would John disbelieve him, but he'd learned that emotions were not only fascinating, but sometimes rewarding. He knew Mycroft had come to a different conclusion years ago, and he was aware why – their childhood had hardly been what one would call "good" – but nonetheless, he cared, and Mycroft wasn't acting like his usual pompous rather annoying self, like the brother he'd grown up with and had once been close to, and he wanted to know why. There had to be a reason. There was always a reason.

He didn't share his suspicions with John, yet he knew his doctor suspected something by the way he walked out of the flat; a brisk pace he only used when they were on a case.

He played his violin for several hours until John returned.

He was a little tipsy, but still managed to let him know – through a few almost invisible gestures while he was making tea that Sherlock had taught him soon after he'd moved in just to be sure they'd be able to communicate if they ever got captured – that they needed to talk.

So he let himself be persuaded that he should "help with the shopping for once" after they'd finished the tea the next morning, making sure he looked properly reluctant and followed John to the corner that was thankfully free of surveillance cameras; as long as they didn't stay too long, Mycroft wouldn't think they had discussed anything of importance.

"Greg is worried" John said once they were safely hidden from view. "He says Mycroft barely calls him anymore, and if he does and they do meet, he is withdrawn – even more than usual – barely talks – again, even more than usual – and doesn't seem to be interested in what he has to say in the slightest –"

"I understand" Sherlock interrupted him. He looked down at the floor, frowning.

"So Greg is of the same opinion".

"Yes" John replied, "and I would like to know what the opinion is, exactly".

Sherlock looked up and said, simply, "Something is wrong with Mycroft".

John shook his head. "I haven't noticed anything".

"You don't see him that often – and you wouldn't notice that he's become cold" Sherlock answered. There was no need to elaborate; they both knew John still had a problem with seeing the elder Holmes and that he wouldn't see anything wrong with the fact that Mycroft didn't greet him anymore.

John trusted Sherlock, though, so he simply nodded.

"Do you think he's ill?" he asked, and Sherlock bit his lip.

"I am not sure. He doesn't have a fever – at least he didn't the last time I saw him – and he doesn't appear to be in any pain or feel weak, either. I'm just – " he broke off, not sure how to describe it and John smiled.

"It's alright to be worried, Sherlock. You know him better than I do, and if you say something is wrong, I believe you".

Sherlock smiled back, silently thanking his friend.

"Sorry to interrupt your chick-flick moment" someone said behind Sherlock, "but are you Sherlock Holmes, by any chance?"

Sherlock turned around and took in the group standing before him.

Three men; Americans. The one who'd spoken was obviously the oldest and the brother of the tallest, who seemed to be sorry for the way his brother had introduced himself into their conversation; they'd flown in just a few hours ago and hadn't even had time to find a hotel.

They were... Sherlock frowned. Illegal weapons concealed in their jeans, the older one had a small bloodstain on his wrist – hit men? Hunters of some sort? – not enough data.

Behind these two stood another, smaller man (although still taller than John), in a tie and a trench coat, apparently content with letting the other one speak. Sherlock couldn't deduce him, just like he hadn't been able to read Irene Adler all those years ago; it was disquieting.

The younger one cleared his throat and Sherlock became aware that John had moved to stand beside him, hand ready to draw his own illegal weapon.

"Look –" the younger one started, "I don't know how to say this, but – you might have a demon problem."


	2. Chapter 2

John was stunned. Did the tall one really just tell them that they had a "demon problem"?

He wouldn't have been surprised or concerned that they knew who Sherlock was – after his well-publicised suicide and his even more public return, it was to be expected – but these three... Why did they suddenly show up out of nowhere while they were discussing Mycroft? And what did they mean?

At least Sherlock didn't seem disconcerted. John had moved to stand next to him as soon as the leader – he supposed he was, since he'd been the first one to talk and was staring at them like he demanded answers – had spoken. His hand hovered over the pocket in which he kept his gun; he wouldn't hesitate to shoot in the moment one of the tried to attack them.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked calmly and John forced himself to relax. Ever since the consulting detective had returned, he'd been jumpier than before; he shouldn't just assume everyone was a threat.

Sherlock felt John relax. Good. They didn't know who these men were, nor why they were here; it would be better to ask them what they wanted first before shooting. Especially since two of them were armed. The one in the trench coat who hadn't spoken yet didn't carry a weapon; Sherlock was sure of that at least, even if he couldn't deduce anything else. But still, it was two guns against one, and he would prefer this not to turn into a fight. Especially since he still had Mycroft to worry about.

The younger one who had told them that they might have a "demon problem" (for once, Sherlock had no idea what he meant) bit his lip before answering, "I know this will be difficult to understand. But listen –"

"Look" the elder one interrupted him, "Your brother might be possessed by a demon, and we need to find out if it's true, and if it is, we need to waste the demon".

"Dean" the tallest said, visibly annoyed, "You are not helping. You should calm down".

"Calm down? I just spent eight hours in a flying death trap because some chick sent us on a demon hunt that might not even be a demon hunt and you decided we needed to earn money while hunting..."

"Dean, I do not believe you are making a good first impression" the one in the trench coat finally said, "and you slept during the flight. For two hours, at least".

"I just rested my eyes and – Cas, I thought you were sleeping. Don't you ever sleep?"

The other man shrugged. "I'm not used to it".

That seemed to make the elder brother uncomfortable, although Sherlock couldn't say why; he didn't say anything else, and the younger one continued where he had left off.

"There is no easy way to say this, but – we think your brother might be possessed by a demon."

"What?" John asked, obvious disbelief in his voice. Sherlock couldn't blame him. Mycroft hadn't been himself lately, but a demon? Really? Why would anyone come to such a conclusion? They had to be lying; there had to be another reason why they wanted to get into contact with him. But why would three strange men suddenly show up and tell him that his brother was possessed by a demon?

"I know it's not easy to understand" the younger man added, "but – "

"What is there to understand? It's impossible!" John interrupted him, taking out his gun.

"I suggest you tell us why you are really here".

Sherlock understood John's reasoning, but he was... intrigued. What did they want?

He decided to ask something else first, though.

"Who called you?" he demanded. He didn't have any reason to think they would be honest with him, but neither was there any cause to believe them dishonest. They hadn't drawn their weapons although John was pointing his at them.

The older one of them answered.

"Like I said, some chick called us, offered us money if we would take the case, said something along the lines of "We know about people like you". She called herself Anthea".

Sherlock had suspected as much; if anyone called them about Mycroft and it wasn't him or John or Greg –

It could only have been Anthea.

He would have appreciated a warning that they were coming, but Anthea had worked for the British Government too long not to keep a few secrets. And if she trusted these men...

She had been working for Mycroft for a long time now. She knew his brother. Sherlock had known her almost as long; his brother had put her in charge of his surveillance when he'd still been a drug addict and living off the grid. He trusted her, and she trusted him, although they had barely spoken in all the time they'd known about each other. She wouldn't send just anyone to meet him and John. And she wouldn't have used the name he and John normally referred to her by if she didn't think them trustworthy, or at least useful allies.

"John" he said quietly, and the doctor sighed and dropped the gun.

Sherlock looked at each of them in turn and finally asked, "Who are you?"

The oldest of them answered. Of course. Mycroft wouldn't have allowed Sherlock to answer a question like that, either.

"Sam and Dean Winchester" he said, indicating with his hand that he was Dean and his brother was Sam. "And this is Castiel".

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Castiel who?" He didn't appreciate people withholding information, especially if it was something as vital as a name. He could easily find out whether Dean and Sam Winchester existed; but he'd need more than the name of the Angel of Thursday to research the other man.

"Just Castiel" the man in the trench coat replied. "Or Cas, if you would prefer that".

Dean shot him a look that was difficult to interpret, but didn't say anything.

""Just Castiel"?" John repeated.

Castiel nodded. "I don't have a last name. I was an..."

"Alright, Cas, I think they've heard enough for the time being" Sam interrupted him. "Is there anywhere we can talk in private?" he asked Sherlock.

The consulting detective hesitated for a moment. If they wanted to talk about his brother, and they obviously did, there was no place where they could talk without being overheard. Mycroft had his eyes and ears everywhere.

His text alert rang out and he quickly took out his phone.

_Your flat is clean. He thinks it is a malfunction of the equipment._

Apparently the corner wasn't as free from surveillance cameras as they'd thought, or at least Anthea had watched for the Winchesters and Castiel to appear and come to her own conclusions when neither them nor Sherlock and John had appeared on the next monitor. Either way, Sherlock had no reason to doubt her. He didn't recognize the number, it was true; but this only meant she was using a burn phone and didn't want anyone to know who had sent the text.

Especially not Mycroft.

And now that he'd reminded himself why he was at the street corner to begin with, and why the Winchesters and their friend without a past (he still wondered why he couldn't deduce anything about him) were here, the decision was surprisingly easy.

"Our flat is in the next street" he informed them, courtly, and felt more than saw John's surprised look. He knew the doctor was suspicious, and so was he. But Anthea had sent them, and she would never do that unless she knew them to be trustworthy.

John didn't say anything, simply followed him as he briskly made his way back to their flat.

Mrs. Hudson shuffled out of her door as soon as she heard them come in and looked at the strangers.

"Oh, hello Sherlock, I didn't know you were meeting clients..."

He decided to let his landlady believe that this was just any other case and simply smiled politely, but the Castiel said, "We're not clients".

Sherlock turned around. Dean sighed while Sam shot him an apologetic look and Mrs. Hudson asked, confused, "Sorry?"

"We are not clients. We are – "

Sam chose to interrupt him.

"We are – friends of – " he quickly looked from Sherlock to John and apparently decided that it was more believable that the doctor had friends Mrs. Hudson didn't know because he finished his sentence with "John's. We thought we'd drop by while we were in the country".

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Oh, that's lovely! Why don't you go up. I just made tea, and the cake I baked should be cool enough to eat any minute now. I'll just bring everything up later".

Sherlock would have preferred if she didn't, but he knew Mrs. Hudson well enough not to protest. Dean didn't seem to be annoyed – on the contrary, he was delighted.

"That sounds absolutely wonderful, Miss – "

"Mrs. Hudson, my dear."

He winked. "Should have known someone as pretty as you would be married".

She chuckled. "Oh, John, your friends are quite as charming as you, I see". With that she closed the door and Sam looked at Dean, rolling his eyes.

"What?" his brother demanded. "She's nice".

"You just like the fact that you're going to get pie".

"So what? I just survived the flight; I deserve some".

"Why don't we go up?" John suggested, his voice brooking no argument, and Castiel was the first to walk up the stairs. He waited for Sherlock to come and open the door, though, and the consulting detective frowned. Something was strange about this man; not only couldn't he deduce him, but he was polite to a fault, and he obviously had no idea – judging by the look he'd shot Sam when the younger Winchester had interrupted him – why going around telling everyone the truth was a bad idea. And he, at least, was telling the truth, was believing that they were her because Mycroft was "possessed". Sherlock might not be able to make any deductions about his life, but he knew when someone was telling the truth. And Castiel was.

Predictably enough, Sherlock trusted him most, or rather, mistrusted him the least. Not only was it good to know that someone simply didn't lie; the consulting detective knew only too well how it felt like when everyone around was trying to hold up pointless social conventions when he knew them to be simply a waste of time.

He opened the door and let Castiel in, followed by Dean, Sam and John who had of course been the last to climb up the stairs to make sure no one tried to attack Sherlock from behind.

"So" he began, sitting down in his usual chair and putting the tips of his fingers together, "please, tell me why I should believe you".

John sat down in his chair while Dean and Sam took the sofa and Castiel remained standing.

"Well..." Sam answered, after having received a nod from his brother that told him he should explain everything, "Like Dean said, Anthea called us because she had heard about us. We're hunters".

"Hunters?" John asked.

Sam nodded. "Yes. We hunt demons, ghosts... anything supernatural, really".

"Of course you do" John replied but fell silent when he saw that Sherlock was listening,

"And" Sam continued "Anthea believes that your brother – Mycroft, is it? – is possessed by a demon".

"What makes you think that?" Sherlock inquired. He knew John didn't believe them, and in fact he was hardly convinced, but he had to check every option. Something was wrong with Mycroft.

Dean asked, his eyes boring into Sherlock's. "He's suddenly too cold? Uncaring? Not the brother you know?"

All of that was true, but he could not suppose it was enough to make Sherlock believe his brother was possessed.

"You ever notice his eyes turning black?"

He'd thought he had imagined it, a few weeks ago. Mycroft had turned around to leave, and for a moment Sherlock could have sworn that his eyes were black –

And, just like that, Sherlock had to admit that their theory seemed a lot more plausible.


	3. Chapter 3

"Black eyes"?" John inquired, looking from Dean to Sherlock and back again. "Do you mean dilated pupils? Because trust me – I'm a doctor, and that's hardly a sign for demonic possession..."

"John" Sherlock said quietly. The doctor looked at his best friend, frowning.

"Sherlock, I am just pointing out – "

"Mycroft's eyes were black" Sherlock continued, "and I don't mean that his pupils were dilated."

John bit his lip. "What – "

"His eyes were black, John. They were – they were completely black".

For a moment, it looked like John was going to protest, explain that it wasn't possible for someone's eyes to turn completely black, but he trusted Sherlock enough not to say anything and simply nodded.

John took a deep breath and asked, "So black eyes are a sign of demonic possession?"

"Yes" Sam answered, "demons have black eyes. Sometimes, either by mistake or if they want to, they show their true nature".

Sherlock smiled humourlessly. If Mycroft was indeed possessed, it must be a strong demon; he knew his brother. Mycroft would have fought, was most likely still fighting; he wouldn't just allow his body to be taken. And therefore, this demon had to have allowed him to see what it was. He couldn't have expected Sherlock to know about demons; but still...

The consulting detective closed his eyes, searching his mind palace for everything he'd ever saved about demons, which admittedly wasn't much; he had always believed they didn't exist and therefore unimportant.

Dean watched the – he believed the chick had called him "consulting detective" – close his eyes and wondered how long they'd have to wait. This was his brother they were talking about; shouldn't he be worried or at least interested in getting him back to normal?

"What is he doing?" he asked the doctor.

"He's looking through his mind palace" John replied, "and it will probably take a while. Would you like some..."

In this moment, there was a knock and the door and Mrs. Hudson shuffled in without waiting for an answer, bearing a tray of tea and cake, smiling pleasantly.

Dean beamed at her.

"Mrs. Hudson – like I said, I should have know you would be married."

"Oh, don't get too happy before you have tried, my dear" she answered and gave him a piece.

Dean immediately started gulfing the cake down; Sam watched slightly embarrassed, while Castiel seemed more fascinated with Sherlock's thought process, judging by the way he stared at his best friend. John barely held back a sigh. He had been living with Sherlock Holmes for quite a while now, and he had no problem with it; but to have another three unpredictable men under his roof might just be too much.

Mrs. Hudson thankfully left them after Dean had complemented her baking skills ("This is – wonderful!" and of course he'd winked, and John could have sworn their house – landlady had blushed) and he got get back to the topic at hand.

And there were a few questions Sherlock hadn't asked yet.

"So" John began, "Anthea called you".

Dean was still busy eating, so Sam answered, "Yes".

"Did she say why she suspected her boss was possessed by a demon?"

"She did send us a few reports about storms in the area, which might be signs that a demon, and a powerful one, is around... other than that, she stated that she'd seen her boss' eyes turn black in a mirror and that he wasn't acting like himself."

John would have asked how Anthea knew about the existence of demon hunters, but he could hardly suppose there was anything Mycroft's assistant didn't know about, so he let it slide.

"And how do we prove it? There has to be a way, right?"

Sam nodded. Dean swallowed, finally, and decided to answer.

"If we could put holy water into his drink, or throw it at him..."

John laughed. He couldn't help it. The thought of putting anything into Mycroft's drink without him noticing was simply too ridiculous.

"What?" Dean asked, annoyed, and John forced himself to stop laughing.

"It's just... Mycroft – it's not going to be easy to sneak anything into his drink. Or to have you two even meet him".

"Why?"

"How do you think Anthea knew who to call?" John shot back. "As she rightly stated, Mycroft is her boss, and he is the British Government". He figured it could do no harm to tell these strange Americans that the UK was run by one man; nobody would believe them anyway, and desperate times called for desperate measures. And to have another three insane men sitting in his living room definitely counted as desperate times in his book.

Dean blinked, slowly, and this time it was Sam who asked, "What do you mean?"

"He is the British Government" John repeated slowly, making sure to emphasize every word.

He didn't expect them to understand or believe him, but suddenly Castiel, who he'd almost forgotten about, asked, "So he runs the country?" in an innocent way that would have made John think he was trying to make fun of him if he hadn't seen the man's face.

Castiel was a strange man, and not in the way Sherlock was.

Although John was starting to see some similarities. In fact, Castiel's obvious desire to say whatever came into his head endeared him to the doctor. He couldn't help it, not when his best friend was doing the same.

Staring into Castiel's blue, honest eyes, he decided that he would answer frankly.

"Yes. He does. He controls everything. And he has his eyes everywhere. The only reason we were even able to bring you here was that Anthea somehow managed to disconnect the cameras."

"Great. A demon who has the control over the whole country. Wonderful" Dean replied.

Sam shot him an angry look, and Castiel seemed confused – apparently he was not used to sarcasm, another thing that reminded John of the consulting detective – and Dean shrugged his shoulders before adding, "No offense".

"None taken. I admit that, should Mycroft really be possessed, it's going to be difficult to prove."

"You don't believe us" Sam said; it was statement, not a question.

John sighed. "I haven't noticed any change in Mycroft. That doesn't mean it's not there, though. Sherlock and Greg – another friend of ours – are worried. And if they think something's wrong, it most likely is. I just find it difficult to believe that there are demons, that's all".

"There aren't only demons..." Castiel answered, but stopped talking after he'd taken a look at Dean's face.

John wondered if he should ask, but decided against it; dealing with Mycroft possibly being possessed was enough for the moment.

"Can you exorcise it?"

Dean and Sam jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice, having almost forgotten that he was there; John, who was used to his best friend suddenly announcing something after a long period of silence and, strangely, Castiel didn't. Maybe he'd been staring at Sherlock again and therefore seen he was about to speak.

Sherlock lazily opened his eyes while still keeping his hands in the prayer position John knew so well.

"If a demon is possessing my brother, can you exorcise it? Without him being injured in the process?"

The silence that followed was answer enough. John saw Sherlock's shoulders tense and was wondering how to demand an answer when Castiel interrupted his thought process.

"If we can trap the demon and no harm has befallen your brother's body, we can exorcise him and your brother will be saved. If your brother should have been fatally injured during or after the demon attack, if the demon is all that's keeping him alive, he will die. But he will die a human".

It was hardly a reassuring answer, but Sherlock nodded, stiffly.

Castiel was still looking at him and added, "I am sorry".

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the air. "I understand."

Somehow, this stranger had known just what to say. Or rather, he had managed to say exactly what Sherlock needed to hear. John wasn't sure he'd have found the right words, should their roles have been reversed.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves" the doctor argued. "We don't even know if Mycroft is possessed yet – "

He didn't believe it. He couldn't believe it. Demons? Ghosts? And, should they exist – did this mean God existed, too? He'd never believed in – anything, really; the only time he could recall praying was when he'd got shot, and then it hadn't been a gesture of faith, but rather a last desperate attempt of saving his life.

Dean opened his mouth, but surprisingly Castiel beat him to it.

"No we don't" he said quietly, "but Sherlock feels something is wrong".

John looked at the consulting detective. For the first time in a long time, he saw his friend surprised; he was frowning at Castiel like he was a puzzle to be solved. Then he turned to look at John and said, "He is right. Something is wrong with my brother. I don't know what".

The doctor hadn't expected him to be so frank in front of strangers, but it calmed him somewhat. Sherlock could deduce everyone; he wouldn't have let them in the flat to behind with if he was concerned for John's or Mrs. Hudson's safety. And he could hardly blame him for being concerned about his brother, no matter what Mycroft had done, no matter that John still couldn't look him in the eyes.

If he had made an effort to be civil to the elder Holmes – if he had paid attention – perhaps he would have noticed something was amiss sooner. Perhaps Sherlock wouldn't have had to go through this alone.

John was supposed to be his best friend, his flatmate, his doctor. He should notice if Mycroft behaved different. He should notice when Sherlock was worried.

He should notice.

And he hadn't.

So now, all that was left to do was what he always did; trust Sherlock.

And that was easy enough.

"We need a plan" he announced, and by the glitter in Sherlock's eyes he realized he had said the right thing. "Getting anywhere near Mycroft is never easy, and if he is possessed, it's going to be even more difficult –"

"We are experts at sneaking into places" Dean interrupted, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Please. No one could just "sneak into" my brother's house or the Diogenes Club, or his office, for that matter."

Dean fell silent and Sam suggested after a moment of silence, "And what if you meet up with him and put some holy water – "

John almost laughed; Sherlock's face was enough to stop Sam from finishing the sentence.

"My brother and I are not in the habit of meeting on each other on a regular basis".

"Then what do you do?" Dean asked, confused, "I mean, you must keep in touch somehow".

"He calls me when he wants me to take over a case, and he keeps me under surveillance. He is also in the habit of kidnapping my friends. Other than that, we have no relations to speak of, so that I can't just pretend to visit him in order to get him to drink holy water."

Dean was frowning, and John tried to explain.

"They aren't close". Sherlock rolled his eyes again, obviously convinced he didn't need to elaborate, and Dean looked like he was about to ask another question, but then Castiel gently said, "Just because someone doesn't always come when he's called, or doesn't see someone else often doesn't mean he doesn't care, Dean".

At least that spared them any more question; Sherlock shot Castiel another fascinated look, while Dean looked at the floor and took another bite of the cake Mrs. Hudson had left them.

"So" John finally broke the uncomfortable silence, "Sherlock, how do we get to Mycroft?"

The fact that the consulting detective didn't answer immediately confirmed his suspicion.

This was going to get even more complicated than it already was.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had know that John would expect him to have an answer how to approach Mycroft; how to prove or disprove that he was possessed.

But, for once in his life, he didn't know what to do. He had fought against the most dangerous criminal this city had ever seen; he had dismantled his web; but this – this probable possession – England in the hands of a demon – and the fact that he could do very little, simply because he and Mycroft had never got on –

No. There had to be a way. There was always a way. He refused to believe it was impossible. If something was wrong with Mycroft – if he was indeed possessed – he had to help him. Despite Moriarty. Despite everything.

Plus, England would fall if someone else than Mycroft Holmes ran it. He owed it to his country to set things right. Not that he cared.

Sherlock looked up to find Castiel staring at him again. Somehow, he had the strange feeling that this man he knew nothing was able to read his thoughts; it was disconcerting. He shook the feeling off and looked at the brothers.

"While I won't be able to pretend to meet Mycroft just to "catch up", I think it might be possible to have put holy water into his drink. Even to have him come here to watch the reaction".

"And how?" Dean demanded after he had finally finished the cake. "I thought you two didn't see eye to eye".

"We don't. But he is sure to give me a case within the next few days – in fact, he's three days overdue – and he will have to come by to give me the file. He doesn't like to send important information per phone or e-mail".

"Of course he doesn't" Dean replied, clearly sceptical. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

"If you don't believe me, you are free to leave."

Sam quickly intervened.

"It's not that we don't believe you, Sherlock – it's just, if your brother is really as powerful as you told us, the demon inside could wreak havoc in a few days, that's all".

"Yeah, that's what I meant" his brother confirmed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Somehow, these two reminded him of him and John, although he still couldn't deduce Castiel, much to his frustration. Or at least Sam was always trying to turn Dean's statements into something more socially acceptable. Sherlock would gladly have told him that it wasn't necessary, but had the feeling that John wouldn't like it.

"So we wait" Castiel said. It wasn't a question, and he didn't sound annoyed or impatient either.

Sherlock nodded. "It's the only thing we can do". He could try to break into Mycroft's mansion; he could try to get into his office. He could try to throw holy water at him, or whatever these three thought would work. But he wasn't convinced that Mycroft was possessed – how could he be – and he wouldn't risk the relationship they'd built slowly ever since he'd come back. Not yet. He was worried, he would admit that. But just because Mycroft didn't act like himself –

Only there was no "just" about it. He had known Mycroft all his life, and the elder Holmes had never acted strange. He was a creature of habit; went to work and the Diogenes Club at the same time every day (unless an emergency made his presence at the office necessary). He rarely left his accustomed paths and therefore, although undeniably dangerous to anyone else, he was somewhat predictable for people who knew him. As far as Sherlock was aware, this list included him, Anthea, possibly Greg – and would have included John if the doctor hadn't been blinded by his resentments. Sherlock understood John's reasoning, though. Now and then, he couldn't help but wish to feel the same way. It would make everything easier.

He had to concentrate on the problem at hand though, on the three... hunters sitting (or standing, Castiel still hadn't sat down) in his and John's living room telling him that the British Government was possessed by a demon.

God knew what it could do, or had already done. He would have to check with Anthea to make sure they weren't on the way to a war.

Speaking off –

His text alert rang out. He read the text and sighed.

"You'll have to go" he informed them, curtly. "Anthea thinks Mycroft is going to realize something's amiss any minute now".

"I'd have expected he'd find out sooner" John said, "He must be getting slow."

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. Sam and Dean didn't react to their little exchange, but Castiel shot them a puzzled look. Then again, this was what he'd done since he'd entered the flat.

Sam nodded and stood. "We'll find a hotel". Dean sighed, looking if he'd really eaten the last piece of cake (he had) before standing up and walking to the door, Castiel following him immediately.

They exchanged numbers – Sherlock naturally giving them the one of his untraceable burn phone.

"I will call you as soon as I've spoken to Anthea. I am sure we will find a way to explain your presence."

"Alright" Sam said and left with a polite "Goodbye", followed by Dean who waved a hand in the air and simply called out "See you later".

Castiel turned around before leaving and said, quietly, "We will do some research too. We will do our best, and we will try to save your brother".

He nodded at Sherlock and closed the door behind him.

John looked at Sherlock and shook his head.

"I'd say he was a little bit strange –"

"If you didn't know me" Sherlock completed the sentence absent-mindedly while texting Anthea that it was safe to turn the cameras back on and that he would be in touch through a burn phone.

"She's got one too, of course" he explained to John. "For emergencies".

"Doesn't Mycroft have the number?"

"Yes, but as long as he doesn't know we are in touch he will hardly think about controlling all his employee's phones. It's a risk we have to take".

John went into the kitchen to make more tea and hid a smile. Complicated as the situation was, dangerous as it was, he couldn't help but find Sherlock's worry... endearing, for lack of a better word. Even if it concerned Mycroft.

A few minutes later, he came back with the tea and asked, "What did you deduce about them, while we're at it?"

Sherlock sighed. "They are hunters of some sort – and brothers, I am sure of that. But..." he trailed off and John asked, "Yes?"

"Castiel. I can't deduce anything about him."

"Nothing?" the doctor asked, surprised. "Just like..."

"Yes. Just like Irene Adler. Somehow I doubt he's a dominatrix who regularly blackmails her clients".

John snorted and gave Sherlock his cup.

"Do you trust them?"

"I don't have enough data yet."

John should have known this would be the answer. Then again, he didn't yet know if he trusted them himself. What they were saying was ridiculous – but he'd seen his fair share of strange cases since he'd met Sherlock. They genuinely wanted to help them, though, and John was convinced it wasn't all about the money.

Castiel was weird, he would admit that, but he didn't seem dangerous.

Sherlock got a text on his burn phone. He read it, downed the rest of his tea and stood up.

"I'm going to meet Anthea."

Before he could ask, John had already put his jacket on, and Sherlock smiled.

They took a cab to the warehouse John had first met Mycroft in.

Anthea was waiting for them in the shadows and said as a way of greeting, "He's in a meeting. We have half an hour".

Sherlock nodded.

"So you have met the Winchesters?" Anthea asked.

"Yes – and their friend."

"I can't tell you anything about him, I fear, but they swear he is trustworthy, and they are good at what they do."

"So they are really some kind of – ghost busters?" John asked. Anthea nodded.

"Yes – and they are the best".

"There are more of them?"

"Yes there are. But that is not what I have to discuss with you". She took a deep breath. "Whether or not your brother is possessed, Sherlock, I know what he is planning to do".

"And?" Sherlock asked. Anthea seemed – almost scared. He had never even seen her nervous. Something was wrong.

She hesitated before answering. "He has been looking closely – even more closely than normally – at the lives of the leading politicians in the country. He made sure his orders would be followed by certain military leaders no matter what. I think – I think he is going to murder the members of the Government, close off the boundaries and cut off all relations to other countries. People will be prisoners in their own country. He would control everything – and I mean the lives of everyone, not just the Government as he does now.

He is about to become a dictator".


	5. Chapter 5

John swallowed. He hadn't expected this. W he didn't like Mycroft – was sure he'd never be able to trust him – he knew that he was dedicated to his country, would never do anything that would harm its safety. In fact, it was probably Mycroft who had kept it safe and sound over the last two decades. He wouldn't –

But if he was really possessed by a demon –

He still didn't believe it. But just the possibility was enough. Mycroft had always had much, perhaps too much power, and it didn't matter if he was possessed – what mattered was that Anthea was convinced he was trying to take over the control of the whole country, that he wanted to kill every member of the Government –

"What about the Queen?" he suddenly asked, stupidly. He hadn't meant to; but he remembered Mycroft's comment about an "old friend" quite well, and it was difficult to believe that the man who could enter Buckingham Palace whenever he pleased would readily murder the royal family.

Anthea glared at him in a very Holmes-like way.

"Do you really think he would spare the royal family, despite them having little to no legislative power?"

John shook his head. Anthea had never raised her voice; she had never been impolite; she had never looked scared. She was convinced something was wrong with Mycroft, and maybe he wasn't possessed – alright, John still thought it impossible – but if Sherlock and Anthea and Greg all thought that he wasn't himself, they had to be right. They knew Mycroft best.

"Can you put holy water into his tea?" Sherlock calmly interrupted the silence. After a moment, Anthea nodded.

"It shouldn't be too difficult. He only ever allows me to make his tea anymore – officially because he's scared of poison. Unofficially..."

She shuddered and John understood why she had called the Winchesters and Castiel to begin with. Mycroft had never shown any interest in – that kind of thing; in fact John thought both brothers were asexual.

"He likes to see me" she finished, determined not to say anything else, and John was relieved that at least Mycroft hadn't done anything he would regret once he got back to normal.

Yet.

"Perhaps – " he started, unsure, but she interrupted him.

"I can take care of myself, thank you. And I barely have time to serve him the tea anyway."

John wasn't reassured but realized he wouldn't get any other answer, so he asked, "You will make his tea with holy water? How does it work, exactly?"

"I have to bless it with a rosary" she answered. "I know how it works."

For a moment John considered asking her how she knew, but he doubted she'd answer. So he just nodded and let Sherlock take the lead.

"You have to do it soon" the consulting detective announced, "otherwise – "

"Trust me, Sherlock, I know the consequences" she replied drily. Both Sherlock and John knew that she wasn't angry, though. She was just run down and scared and wanted this to be over.

Like they all did.

"Text me once as soon as you have the results" Sherlock said before bidding Anthea goodbye and leaving without another word. John followed him as always. Most people would have considered his last remark heartless, but John knew the consulting detective better than that; Sherlock was always more comfortable to do experiments than work with people, and to see his brother's test as such helped him deal with it.

They took a cab back to Baker Street.

Sherlock took his burn phone out to send a text, and John inquired, "You are texting – "

"The Winchesters, of course, to be specific, Dean".

"I would have thought you would be more comfortable texting Sam" John answered; the younger Winchester had certainly seemed the more professional of the two.

"Dean will suffice" Sherlock replied as if it explained everything; the doctor was so used to such answers that he didn't even ask him to elaborate but instead was content to look out the window for the rest of the journey.

Sherlock did the same, his mind racing. He had known something was wrong with his brother, but locking off the country like a villain in these James Bond movies John loved to watch? That just wasn't something Mycroft would do. He had always preferred to pull the strings in the background; even if he became, for lack of a better word, "evil", he would not try to install himself as the dictator of England. He would maybe kill the Government, the royal family, Sherlock could understand that; but he wouldn't plan to let the public know that it was he who had done all this. And according to Anthea he was certainly going to be the country's new leader. Why else would he make sure the army obeyed his every command?

Sherlock had to admit that it almost seemed like Mycroft truly was... possessed.

He was reasonably sure that he could rule out a mental illness. He certainly knew none which symptoms would fit his brother's behaviour, and if John did, he would have said something. He could easily renounce the idea that Mycroft had always been like this and was only now starting to put a long-laid plan into motion; he had known him all his life, had looked into his eyes when he'd talked to him about his addiction, his career choice, John; Mycroft was not a sociopath. Mycroft would never plot to take over the country (although his doctor might have claimed, and not without justification, that he already had – but sometimes it wasn't the goal that mattered, but the way in which one reached it, and this wasn't Mycroft's style, it was as simple as that).

Once again, Sherlock remembered his favourite saying.

_Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

And while he couldn't say for sure that his brother was possessed by a demon, he couldn't rule it out, either. It was improbable – in fact he could hardly think of anything more improbable – but it wasn't impossible.

But he was getting ahead of himself. They had to wait for the result of the test.

Strangely, Sherlock didn't know which outcome he feared more.

Because, should Mycroft be possessed, they would somehow have to vanquish a demon with the help of three Americans they knew nothing about.

And yet, if he wasn't –

Sherlock would have to prevent his brother from taking over the country. And he knew Mycroft.

Foiling his plan and putting him into prison wouldn't be enough.

He would have to kill his brother.

"Sherlock" John interrupted his thoughts. He turned his head to find the doctor staring at his hands. He looked down on his lap and realized that he'd clenched them into fists. He forced himself to relax and asked, casually, "Yes, John?"

He shook his head. "Sherlock, please. I know you are worried."

"I don't think "worried" is the right word". Sherlock looked out the window again and bit his lip.

John understood.

"Be careful what you wish for?" he quietly inquired.

Sherlock nodded.

John didn't know what to say. Going up against Mycroft wouldn't be an easy task. And furthermore – no matter if there was a demon inside him; he had to be stopped; once and for all.

And that meant...

John quickly squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, let his hand drop and said, "It'll all be fine".

They both knew it probably wouldn't, but his words helped anyway; Sherlock gave him a half-smile before looking out of the window again.

John cleared his throat.

"So when do you think" he asked "will Anthea send us the result?"

"Knowing her, she will want to know as soon as possible. Mycroft usually drinks tea after meetings. It shouldn't be long".

They didn't speak again until they reached Baker Street.

Sherlock immediately went upstairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson who came out of her flat to see her boys and ask what was going on; a moment later, music started drifting through 221B, and John knew he most likely wouldn't talk until Anthea texted him.

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson, he is just – been having a hard day" he said, trying to convey to his landlady without words that they couldn't talk because this had to do with Mycroft.

Once again, he decided that most people didn't give Mrs. Hudson the credit she deserved; her eyes lit up with understanding immediately and flitted over to the umbrella stand near the door that Mycroft never used but which she associated with him for obvious reasons.

John gave an almost imperceptible nod and she smiled, patted his shoulder and wished him "Good Luck" before returning to her flat.

John smiled to himself as he went up the stairs. Talking to Mrs. Hudson, even if he couldn't say anything, always made him feel better.

He went into the kitchen to make tea; Sherlock needed to be alone with his thoughts for a while. All they could do was wait. Wait for confirmation that demons existed and that Mycroft was possessed and that they had to tie down the British Government somewhere and perform an exorcism, or Mycroft wasn't possessed and they still had to bring down the British Government.

He understood why Sherlock didn't know which answer he'd prefer. He didn't either. He put Sherlock's cup on the table next to him – the consulting detective let it grow cold, but John didn't care – and sat down.

They didn't have to wait long. As Sherlock had predicted, Mycroft apparently took tea after the meeting.

When the text alert rang out Sherlock carefully put the violin on the table and read it silently. A strange mixture of relief and disappointment flashed over his features before he told John what it said.

Just two words.

_No reaction._

John swallowed. He hadn't realized until this moment what it would mean for Sherlock if the test was negative. He had known, of course, that they would have to bring down Mycroft either way; but he hadn't realized to himself that it meant –

It meant that Sherlock's brother was a criminal and now indeed the most dangerous man he had ever met.

"I am going to let the Winchesters know" Sherlock announced, his voice eerily calm. But John knew him too well. He saw the tension in his body, the stiff movements of his fingers as he typed the words.

"Sherlock..." he started, unsure of how to proceed, but the consulting detective shook his head.

"It doesn't matter".

"Yes it does" John argued. "You can't pretend this isn't – "

"I always told you he was my arch enemy" Sherlock replied, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He laughed a short, hollow laugh and John didn't know what to say.

Sherlock got an answer to his text and frowned.

"They want to meet us".

"Why?"

"Dean apparently doesn't think it necessary to give us details".

John would have laughed if the situation hadn't been so grave. And here he'd thought Sherlock was the master of leaving people in the dark.

"Where – "

"Mycroft is in his office; afterwards he'll go to the Diogenes Club. And anyway, even if he knew we met the Winchesters, it wouldn't matter now. Demon hunters are not going to help us bring him down". Sherlock sighed and looked down at the floor.

"But I told them to meet us in the warehouse where we met Anthea earlier anyway".

They quickly made their back to the warehouse. Sherlock didn't say anything during the cab drive, and John decided to let him in peace. At least for the time being.

The Winchesters and Castiel were waiting for them.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, letting a bit of the frustration he felt seep into his voice. "The test was negative".

"Yes it was" Sam answered. "But as far as Anthea told us, your brother is strong, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "He is. He is the British Government. But I don't understand – "

"Some people, special people, can fight against demons, exercise some control over their body even if they are possessed" Castiel answered. "If your brother is one of them, but has been acting strange and unlike himself anyway, there is a chance that he is possessed by a very powerful demon. And these have been known not to be affected by hold water".

"What then?" John demanded, "Another test?"

"Yes" Dean replied gruffly. "But you won't like what you hear."

Sherlock inclined his head to make him understand that he was listening.

"Even if they aren't much affected by it, rock salt hurts them like a bitch. We have to shoot your brother".


	6. Chapter 6

The silence that followed was deafening.

John stared at Dean. Had he really just suggested they should kill Mycroft in cold blood, just in case? Hadn't Castiel told them they could save him if he was possessed?

Sam shot Dean and angry look and was just opening his mouth to explain when Sherlock inquired, "Why are you so adamant?"

Castiel tilted his head and looked at Sherlock, obviously confused, and Sam and Dean didn't seem to understand either, so the consulting detective rolled his eyes and elaborated.

"You said the test with the holy water would be conclusive. And yet you still insist on another test – one that would considerably harm my brother, if not kill him. I want to know why".

This was obviously not the reaction they had been expecting, but Dean chose to answer anyway.

"Look, I like shooting random guys as much as you, and I understand that you don't want to shoot at your own brother, but when you live under the radar and a scary British chick knows everything about you and calls you and demands you drag your ass over to England to check if someone's possessed by a demon, you better do the job right".

For a moment, John saw a shadow of anger cross Sherlock's face; it happened so quickly that no one else could have seen it, but –

Apparently someone else had.

"Anthea is sure" Castiel said, "and you know something is wrong too, Sherlock. We have taken on cases for less".

Sherlock stared into Castiel's open face before nodding.

Then he turned to Dean and stated, coldly, "I would prefer it if you could manage not to kill him while performing the test."

"I'm not planning on killing him. I know where to shoot".

Again, there was a silence, and again, it was the consulting detective who interrupted it.

"I am coming with you".

Dean wanted to protest, but Sherlock raised a hand.

"You can't shoot Mycroft in his office or on the street; the Secret Service would arrest you immediately. The only chance you have of getting him alone is in his house. And only I can get you inside".

"We will have to wait until nightfall, of course" John announced, and Sherlock turned his head to look at him.

"You are not coming".

"Sorry?" the doctor asked, taken aback.

"Regardless if Mycroft is possessed or not, John, this is going to be extremely dangerous. You are not coming".

"Then you are not going" John replied matter-of-factly. He felt Castiel's gaze on him and wondered if he was currently staring at the doctor in the way he'd been staring at Sherlock since they met.

Sherlock sighed. "John – "

"Sherlock, you are not bringing down the Government without me, and that's it".

His best friend gave in surprisingly easy, which told John that he hadn't really thought he could dissuade the doctor from joining them to begin with.

"We will meet at ten pm on Piccadilly Circus" Sherlock announced and turned around, but Dean's voice stopped him.

"Just one question, pal, you seem not overly concerned over us shooting your big brother. Want to tell us why?"

Castiel said "Dean", almost warningly, or at least with more emotion than John had heard from him yet, but Sherlock turned around and even John almost took a step back when he saw the ferocity in his face.

The consulting detective took a deep breath and answered, quietly and slowly, "I was of the opinion that we had no other option. If we did you would have told us."

"Yes". It was Castiel who answered, and Sherlock nodded at him before abruptly facing the door again and leaving the warehouse, John doing his best to keep up.

By the time he arrived on the street, Sherlock was already stepping into a cab, and he barely made it through the door before they were on their way back to the flat.

"Sherlock..." John started. He had left him alone until now, left him time to think. This time, though, he wouldn't allow it. His friend must be worried; no matter that he and Mycroft didn't really get on, no matter that Mycroft had betrayed him to Moriarty – he was still his brother, and for all his demonstrative not-caring, Sherlock had an affectionate human side. John had seen him scared when he'd stepped out of the shadows at the swimming pool, happy when he'd received a Christmas gift from him, guilty when he'd reappeared in his life after three years. Sherlock, his Sherlock, the Sherlock so few people knew even existed, would not simply accept that they had to shoot Mycroft.

"Yes, John?" he asked, and the doctor sighed.

"Talk to me. This can't be easy".

"It isn't". John waited for something more, but nothing came.

"We will be there" he offered finally, "we will make sure they don't kill him".

"They will injure him, though". There was an almost imperceptible tremor in Sherlock's voice; John swallowed and said firmly, "Not gravely. I'll make sure. If they should threaten to harm him severely, I will shoot him myself."

"Don't act like you haven't thought about it before" Sherlock answered, but not bitterly. It was more a statement than anything else, and John but his lip. If he had been able to forgive or at least tolerate Mycroft, if he'd seen the change in him, would he have been able to prevent all this from happening? Would anyone? It wasn't a question he was capable of answering, and yet he still felt guilty he hadn't paid more attention. This was Sherlock's brother they were talking about. He was tempted to apologize, but the doctor knew what his best friend needed, so he simply replied, "Why not kill two birds with one stone" and left it at that. This earned him something like a smile, at least.

Mrs. Hudson was out when they got back, and the rest of the afternoon passed with Sherlock playing his violin as before and John trying to read and drinking too much tea.

They didn't speak much, and if they did, they didn't mention their plan for this evening. There was no need to. They both knew the risks involved.

If Mycroft was indeed planning to take control, he wouldn't have any scruples about killing his brother and his best friend. Especially when they broke into his house with strangers to shoot him.

For a while, he toyed with the idea of calling Greg, but he doubted he could convince the DI of the necessity of shooting at Mycroft and seeing what happened. He would most likely think they'd gone mad – or rather madder – and try to prevent them from doing what they had to do. Greg was Mycroft's friend, and John respected that. It was better to leave him ignorant of the whole matter. At least until they were sure.

At half past ten Sherlock put down his violin without a word and put his coat on. John was at his side in an instant, and not a minute later they were sitting in a cab to Piccadilly Circus.

They had left rather early and had to wait for a while before the Winchesters and Castiel got out of the tub. Dean was carrying a bag that Sherlock eyed with the knowing look of someone who'd spent three years in hiding and bringing down the web of the most dangerous criminal the World had ever seen (at least until now).

"Sawed-off shotgun?" he inquired quietly. Dean nodded.

"Loaded with rock salt".

Without another word and only taking the time to nod at Sam and Castiel (the latter shot John an understanding look; the doctor was confused; surely this stranger couldn't know enough about his friend to understand him from the few times they'd met?), Sherlock got another cab, a larger one than what they usually took. But since they were five people this time, it was necessary.

They had themselves dropped off a few streets from Mycroft's house, and Sherlock led the way.

Dean's breath hitched when he pointed out the house to them.

"Is your brother rich? That's a mansion, for Christ's sake!"

"Mycroft has never been short of money" Sherlock replied coldly. "I don't know how long we will have to wait. My brother tends to work long".

Dean mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a disgruntled "Of course" but no one answered.

They waited until after midnight, observing the light in an upstairs window that was coming from Mycroft's study. They didn't talk and kept in the shadows – they couldn't afford to be seen; in such a posh neighbourhood, anyone would probably call the police if he saw them standing at a corner for hours on end.

Finally, the light went out and John breathed a sigh of relief. He was freezing.

"He'll go to bed in exactly half an hour" Sherlock said to no one in particular. None of them asked how he knew.

Somehow, this half hour seemed longer than the two hours that had come before it. John knew they had to do it because Sherlock thought they did and he trusted his friend. He just wished Sherlock didn't have to see it. Even though the consulting detective would probably ask "Why?" if he told him.

Sherlock was tense, he could feel it. His friend hadn't taken his eyes from the house since they arrived. John turned his head to look at the other members of their group; the Winchesters seemed equally alert, ready for a fight; Castiel looked just as calm as he had in 221B and the warehouse. John couldn't really see his eyes, but suspected they were fixed on the house, just like Sherlock's.

Sherlock hadn't looked away from the house once. He couldn't. He didn't want to turn his head to see John's sympathy, Dean's determination, Sam's concentration or Castiel's strangely understanding glance. This was just another case, he reminded himself; he couldn't afford to think of what they would do as something special, something that concerned him. He would get distracted if he allowed that to happen.

As soon as the half hour was over, he carefully stole towards the house, more feeling than hearing the others following him.

He couldn't escape all cameras – Mycroft would never have allowed any dead angles, not in his home – but he could make sure they moved slowly and in the shadows. And it was highly unlikely that his brother should sit in front of his monitors at such an hour.

Sherlock managed to quickly disarm the security system – it wasn't the first time he'd done it; now and then, when he'd still been an addict and living on the streets, he'd sneak into Mycroft's house to use the bathroom – and led them upstairs, simply using waves and other gestures to convey to them where they needed to go.

And then, just as they all stood in the corridor leading to Mycroft's bedroom –

"Hello, Sherlock".

The light went on. Mycroft was standing in front of them, in a suit, umbrella in hand, and suddenly, Sherlock was sure.

Whoever this was – whatever this was – it was not his brother.

Mycroft didn't stand in dark corridors and waited for burglars to stumble across him.

It was – it was almost unnatural.

"John" Mycroft continued before looking at the Winchesters and Castiel.

"And – are these hunters that I see? I must confess I am surprised. Why would you bring the Winchesters into my house?"

"To make sure" Sherlock replied calmly, his voice not betraying what he was thinking.

Mycroft chuckled, but it sounded hollow. Not because he was worried, but because –

Because he simply didn't care. There was nothing in his posture or his voice to indicate that he was even aware they had broken into his house, and Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine.

Without hesitation, he said "Dean".

In the next moment, the hunter took the shot. Sherlock's ears where ringing but he managed to stand still.

Mycroft was clutching his left upper arm.

There was no blood.

The British Government let his hand drop and inspected the wound.

"That hurt. And you ruined the suit."

He looked up. His eyes were black.

Sherlock could hear John's breath hitch, and his hands clenched. This was it then; proof. Until now, he hadn't been able to bring himself to believe that his brother was possessed.

And here he was, seeing it with his own eyes.

"Come on, Sherlock, say something!" Mycroft whined in a tone that was oddly familiar but that Sherlock couldn't quite place. "Don't be boring".

Sherlock swallowed. That's where he had heard this tone of voice before.

It couldn't be. It was impossible. He was dead.

"What, we see each other again after such a long time and I don't even get a greeting?" Mycroft – not Mycroft asked, his voice dropping again and taking on an almost teasing tone.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Sherlock, what – " John began; at the same time Dean inquired, "You know him?"

The hunter sounded surprised, incredulous even, but Sherlock would wonder why later.

For now –

He looked into the demon's black eyes and said slowly and deliberately, "Hello, Jim".


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft – or rather Moriarty – smiled, the smile Sherlock had known when the consulting criminal had still been human, and it was all the proof he needed to know he was right.

_Once you have ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth._

He knew Moriarty was dead. He'd thought demons didn't exist.

And now he was standing in front of his brother who had been possessed by the consulting criminal for God knew how long.

Sherlock had noticed the change in Mycroft a while ago, but he didn't know whether Moriarty hadn't been able to fool him. Maybe he's been there for a while now, and simply chose to show Sherlock that something was wrong when he got bored; maybe he's been around ever since he shot himself at the roof of St. Bart's.

Moriarty – despite his enormous intellect, it was difficult to admit to himself that it was him and not his brother he was talking to – sighed.

"You still think too much, Sherlock. Why does everything have to be so complicated? I came back not so long ago. I think you noticed it right away, but hey, nobody's perfect, right? And anyway – if you didn't, I would have been bored".

His eyes turned back, were Mycroft's eyes once again, and Sherlock was surprised when he felt the urge to shoot him. He couldn't. The hunters had said they could exorcise the demon, no matter how powerful it was.

Then again, Moriarty probably knew everything about exorcisms, and Castiel had informed him that Mycroft would die if the demon had hurt him fatally during or after the possession. Knowing Jim, this was more than likely. Hurting Mycroft meant hurting Sherlock either way – whether he managed to exorcise him or not.

Moriarty had always known how to wound him.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

He still could. If Mycroft was indeed wounded fatally – and it was more than likely – Moriarty could leave his body any minute and possess John or Mrs. Hudson or Greg. He could go on until there was no one left. He could destroy Sherlock completely.

"Sherlock, don't be so obvious" Moriarty whined. "If I'd known you'd become so caring in the time I was away, I wouldn't have fought my way out of hell to begin with ". He paused a moment. "All right, maybe I would have. This is hell we're talking about. But still – I think you could show a bit more enthusiasm. I was the only one who ever really distracted you after all."

Sherlock was just about to answer – although he didn't really know what, since he was mostly concerned with keeping John safe – when Sam started to speak.

It was obviously some sort of exorcism in Latin, and Sherlock listened, intending to commit the words to memory, when Moriarty waved his – Mycroft's – hand and everyone except the consulting detective was pinned to the nearest wall.

"Hunters. You are all so – predictable. One of the reasons I went for Sherlock. He might have disappointed me at our last encounter, but what I heard afterwards..."

Jim's eyes glistened.

"There are quite a lot people in Hell who would like to have a little chat with you, my dear. And why shouldn't they? You send them there. You are just like me after all. Like I said before: We are the same. And now you are not even on the side of the angels anymore. You killed. You killed without a second thought, and for purely selfish reason. "I want to get back to my friends", what kind of justification for murder is that? When I heard what you had become I realized I had to go back; I realized life wasn't as boring anymore as when I left it."

Sherlock swallowed. He knew there was no point in turning around; Moriarty wouldn't make the mistake of letting John or his other companions even move an inch.

He hadn't expected to ever see Moriarty again – nor to hear him state out loud what he thought about himself, in the dark hours before dawn when John was sleeping and not even his violin could keep the memories of what he'd done in his three years spent dead away. He hadn't talked to anyone about them, simply courtly informed his friends that he had dismantled Moriarty's web.

But the consulting criminal was right.

He had killed forty-seven people in these three years, and he remembered every single one of them. He'd even tortured a few to get the information he needed, and it was what haunted him the most: the blood slowly dripping unto a concrete floor, the cries, the radio playing some song at full volume so no one would hear his victim scream.

He had indeed changed. How well he remembered what Moriarty had said to him on the roof of St. Bart's long ago.

_Thank you._

Just two words – two words which most of humanity wouldn't pay much attention too, which Sherlock hadn't thought, or tried not to think, about while he had done what he had had to do. Because it was obvious what Moriarty had meant.

He had known that Sherlock would become a killer, a torturer, a criminal; he had known that he had unleashed a new danger upon the World. And he had been so sure of it that he had killed himself.

He had killed himself because he'd known this was what Sherlock would become. He had killed himself because he had known what he had unleashed; because he had known the choice Sherlock would make. Even if he hadn't foreseen that Sherlock would cheat Death, he had hoped he would. He had hoped he would become a vigilante. A man who killed without a second thought.

And the one conclusion Sherlock could draw, the one he chose to keep locked away in his mind palace, was a simple one.

In the end, Moriarty had won.

And he had known it. He had known that he'd won the moment he shot himself, he had known that he would win either way, whether Sherlock would kill himself or turn into a murderer.

"At first I thought I'd possess John" Moriarty continued pleasantly, "but then I realized that, if going for power – why shouldn't I go all the way up? Plus me and Mycroft have a history. What can I say? I'm a sentimental man."

Sherlock heard John struggle to say something behind him. Moriarty grinned.

"Still the faithful pet, I see. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, dear old big brother. I have to say, Sherlock, he is quite the fighter. He keeps trying to regain control over his body."

Naturally Mycroft would fight. He wouldn't stop fighting. And Sherlock didn't know whether Moriarty had a way of killing him. Maybe he was lying, and Mycroft was long gone.

"Where would be the fun in that? Having Mycroft fight a useless fight is so much more entertaining".

Could demons read thoughts? If they did Moriarty surely wouldn't tell him.

Sherlock's mind was racing. He had to get the others out of the house somehow. He couldn't allow anyone to die because the consulting criminal was still as obsessed with him in death as he had been in his lifetime.

"I can only assume" he started calmly, "that your plan goes further than to simply rule the country".

"And why is that?"

"Because once you do you will be bored".

Moriarty chuckled. Sherlock still couldn't get used to hearing the consulting criminal's words spoken in Mycroft's voice.

"You are right. So what do you think my plan is?"

"Obvious" Sherlock stated. "Chaos. You will open the prison doors, crash the economy, abolish every law in existence. You will have your own private Hell to play in."

Mycroft's eyes turned black again.

"Oh no, Sherlock, not Hell. Trust me, no one wants to go back to Hell once he's been there. Not even me. Don't worry, you'll see why – eventually".

If he had wanted to shock or scare Sherlock, he hadn't succeeded. If there was a Hell then the consulting detective had known for a long time that he would end up there eventually.

"We've become pensive, I see". Moriarty tilted his head, obviously intent on continuing the conversation, and Sherlock had had enough.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Can't I just have a chat with an old friend?"

Sherlock didn't answer and the other man shook his head.

"You really have changed. But, to answer your question – I just wanted to make sure all the players know the rules."

"The rules?"

"You don't think I would kill you when I've only just found you again? I want to play, Sherlock. And it's going to be so much more fun than the last time".

Sherlock had had enough of Moriarty's games, but if it meant they got out of here for the time being...

"Fine".

Moriarty grinned. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me. Oh, and" he waved his hand and Sherlock heard a thud and what could only be a suppressed groan of pain from John. He turned around to find his doctor's face contorted.

"Don't look like this, it's just a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. For now".

Sherlock looked back at the consulting criminal. He was waving cheerily at him.

"Anyway, until later, my friends!"

In the next moment he was gone and Sherlock's companions slipped down from the walls.

He was at John's side in an instant. The doctor's gaze was unfocused.

"Sherlock? Was – "

"Yes, John, but we can talk about it later. Can you stand?"

"I think so".

Sherlock helped John up and asked "Where did he go?"

"Where he wanted" Dean answered, picking up his gun. "I am surprised he did, though. He could easily have killed us off."

"It's not his style."

"Who is he?" Sam asked.

Sherlock tightened his grip around John as his friend started to sway.

"I will explain everything, but first we have to get John home."

"Won't he – " Dean inquired, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"He won't. I know him. He wants to play. We are safe for tonight".

Sam and Dean looked sceptical, but Castiel nodded and moved to help Sherlock with John.

When Dean saw his friend take John's other arm, he nodded too and slung his bag over his shoulders.

They slowly made their way out of the house and eventually caught a cab a few streets from the mansion.


	8. Chapter 8

Despite Sam's and Dean's obvious interest in how and why Sherlock knew the demon that possessed his brother, they didn't ask during the cab ride. The consulting detective was busy looking after his blogger, Castiel keeping an eye on him as well.

Sherlock was thankful. At least the hunters understood that this wasn't the right time to ask questions.

He soon realized that John only had a slight concussion and wouldn't have to go to a hospital – not only had he learned a thing or two while they'd been living together, but he had been forced to look after his own injuries now and then when he'd been dead to the World. Therefore he knew what to watch out for, and the only thing he'd have to do after getting John home – apart from making sure he got some rest – was to tend to his dislocated shoulder.

Once the door of their flat had closed behind him – on Sherlock's instruction, the hunters had been careful not to make too much noise on the stairs, otherwise Mrs. Hudson would surely have woken up and come to see what her boys were up to – and John had settled down on the sofa, Dean stated, "So you know him".

"His name is Jim Moriarty" Sherlock answered while trying to get John to follow his index finger with his eyes yet again. "He was a consulting criminal – the most dangerous criminal this country, and I suspect the World, has ever seen. He shot himself almost four years ago".

"A criminal, I assume a murderer too and a suicide" Dean replied. "No wonder he went to Hell".

"You seemed surprised" Sherlock said. Dean looked at him, confused.

"In Mycroft's house, when you realized we knew each other – you seemed surprised."

"All demons were humans once" Castiel answered, beating Dean to it. "Most of them, however, not only forget what it is like to be human, but they forgot they were humans. Jim Moriarty apparently remembers everything."

"It's only been four years" Sherlock argued.

Dean shook his head, a shadow passing over his eyes.

"Time – it passes differently, down there. Four months on Earth are fourty years in Hell; this means he spent about 480 years in Hell."

Sherlock nodded. Obviously Dean had been to Hell, or knew someone who had. Either way, he couldn't spare the time to think about it know. He had to make sure John was fine, he had to somehow find a way to exorcise Moriarty from Mycroft's body.

"Seeing as he not only remembers his past life, but is also immune to holy water and rock salt merely causes him pain, I assume he is a strong demon?"

"Unusually strong" Sam said, "Yes."

"But you can exorcise him?"

The younger Winchester bit his lip.

"If we can trap him – if he can't move – I think so."

Sherlock would have liked a more definitive answer than "I think so", but it would have to be enough.

He looked back at his doctor.

"John?"

"Yes?" he slurred, trying to focus on Sherlock.

"I have to reset your shoulder. It will hurt."

John nodded and leaned into the consulting detective, once more proving that he trusted him more than anyone else, and a heavy feeling settled in Sherlock's chest.

Not only had he brought his blogger in danger countless times in the past, but he had put him through three years of grief for a dead man, and now there was a demon after them.

He couldn't help but think that he had earned the place in Hell Moriarty had told him he would inhabit one day.

He reset John's shoulder with a quick motion; the doctor did his best to hide his pain but didn't quite succeed.

Afterwards Sherlock helped him to his room, despite his protests.

"I want to – I want to help."

"You need rest, John".

When he came back – after having made sure John was comfortable and would call out should he need anything during the rest of the night – he went to the cupboard and pulled out a file.

Jim Moriarty's file.

It contained everything Mycroft had ever known about the consulting criminal and a few additions of Sherlock's; his brother had sent him a copy when he'd let him know he was alive, and once he had returned he had wordlessly given him the original.

Sherlock had taken it for what it was – the closest to an apology the two of them would ever get – and had filed it away.

Until now.

The hunters might know everything there was to know about demons, but they had to see who they were up against.

He gave the file to Dean, saying "This contains everything there is to know about Jim Moriarty. I'll be in the kitchen" and turned around, intent on finishing the experiment he had been working on before John had let him know Greg was worried about Mycroft as well.

He knew Castiel's eyes were following him, as were Sam's – Dean was already buried in the file, pretending not to notice him, which honestly, he preferred – but he didn't acknowledge it.

He focused on his experiment and managed to push all thoughts of Mycroft and Moriarty away, at least for the time being. There was nothing he could do, and useless worrying wouldn't help his brother. He would have to wait until the hunters had read Moriarty's file. Much as he hated to admit it, they were the experts. He didn't have any experience with demons.

He focused on the sample he was studying through his microscope and added various acids as well as other chemicals, observing the different reactions. He didn't know how much time had passed when he suddenly became aware of someone standing in the doorway.

He looked up to find Castiel staring at him, his blue eyes curious but not unfriendly.

"Have you read the file?" he asked, thinking that the hunter might have a question.

"Yes we did. Sam and Dean fell asleep on the couch" the other man informed him. "They did so quite a while ago".

Sherlock looked at his watch and realized that almost three hours had passed; it was after four am. The sun wouldn't rise for a few more hours – it was the middle of March and quite cold for this time of year, even for London – and it was one of the cold, still nights in which one could hear every sound, the kind of night that cleared one's thoughts.

Sherlock had to cherished nights like these once upon a time, before he had spent too many of them alone on his lonely hunt for Moriarty's men, before they'd made him remember again and again everything he had left behind.

He wasn't surprised the Winchesters had fallen asleep. It had been obvious that they hadn't rested after their flight, not even when they had found a hotel room. And John was sleeping anyway.

Sherlock was used to waiting for other people to wake up, for life to recommence. He didn't need much sleep.

He was not used, however, to have someone stand before him, completely awake.

"In case you should feel tired" he offered "you can have my bed".

Castiel shook his head.

"I am not fond of sleeping".

Sherlock remembered what Castiel had said to Dean the day before – _I'm not used to it_ – and was wondering whether it would be socially acceptable to ask why (not that he cared, but he needed his and the Winchesters' help) and if this strange man would answer him honestly if he did (considering he couldn't deduce him, it was a frustrating question) when Castiel suddenly said, "I am sorry I could not heal John".

"I took care of it" Sherlock replied. He was confused and this wasn't a feeling he liked.

Castiel shook his head. "I didn't mean tending to his wounds or making him feel better by offering him companionship. I meant heal him."

"As in – "

"Heal his shoulder and concussion."

"And you are sorry you couldn't do that" Sherlock stated, although more for his than for Castiel's benefit. Why would the hunter be sorry for not doing something that was utterly impossible?

Granted, during the last twenty-four hours Sherlock had learned that many things he'd though impossible were in fact real, but Castiel was human. He couldn't have healed John with a look or a touch, much as Sherlock wished it were true.

"Yes. I used to be able to have the ability" Castiel looked down at the floor, self-conscious, "but not since I became human. I know John means a lot to you – "

"Since you became human?" Sherlock interrupted him. What was he talking about? He couldn't honestly think the consulting detective would believe he had ever been anything else than flesh and blood.

On the other hand, with everything else he had seen today –

"I was an angel of the Lord" Castiel answered matter-of-factly, either genuinely unaware of Sherlock's incredulity or not caring. "My Grace was ripped from me."

There were many reasons for Sherlock not to believe him. Demons existed, but this didn't mean angels did too. And yet –

He trusted Castiel. For some strange reason, he had trusted him from the moment they had met.

"So you aren't just named after the Angel of Thursday".

Castiel seemed surprised.

"Most people do not know where my name comes from."

"I am not most people."

"I have noticed" Castiel replied with a small smile that Sherlock returned.

"Your Grace was ripped and you became human" the consulting detective stated. He knew John would probably have told him he was rude – that Castiel wouldn't want to talk about it – that he was supposed to be polite to the people who flew in from the United States to help them, but he had to know.

"Yes. I – I wasn't with Sam and Dean at the time. It took – I wasn't sure they would take me back when I turned up human. I only gained the courage to find them after a few months."

"I understand" Sherlock said, looking at the slate he'd been studying, because he did. After he'd dismantled Moriarty's web, he hadn't been sure he would be welcome either. He had come back from the dead half-expecting John to have settled down and forgotten about him, or for the doctor to be too angry to let him back into his life. He had been wrong on both counts.

Sometimes, he wondered if this was a good or a bad thing.

Castiel tilted his head and gave him a puzzled look and Sherlock was surprised at the understanding in his eyes once again.

"I am sure you do" he finally said.

Sherlock cleared his throat; he didn't know what to say. To this man, this – angel who had fallen (for his friends, he didn't doubt it, even if Castiel hadn't said so) and still cared enough to try and comfort a complete stranger – there was no other reason why he should stand in their kitchen talking to him at this time of the night.

He finally came up with, "That's why I couldn't deduce anything about you, then. You haven't led a human life to deduce".

"Deduce?" Castiel seemed genuinely interested.

""Yes. The Science of Deduction. It means I draw conclusions about people, things, places and are therefore able to solve crimes."

"I see. Anthea mentioned something about you being – what was it, a consulting detective? – to Dean."

They didn't say anything for a while, and Sherlock was wondering if Castiel would just turn around and leave when the ex-angel said, "We will try our outmost to help you brother".

"You already said that."

"In my experience humans like to be reassured more than once."

"Yes" Sherlock answered, looking at his hand that lay on the table and looked unnaturally pale, even for him in the harsh light of the kitchen lamp. "I suppose they do".

"I am not of the opinion that you will go to Hell" Castiel resumed as if it was the most logical continuation of their talk "should you be wondering."

Sherlock couldn't help it; something that sounded suspiciously like a snort escaped him and the angel gave him another puzzled look.

The consulting detective couldn't deny that being for once the person to understand emotions and social conventions better than his conversational partner was quite refreshing.

He grew serious again, however, when he thought about what the angel had said.

"I am not sure about that, Cas." He noticed that he'd used the nickname Castiel had obviously been given by the Winchesters, but the angel didn't seem to mind. "I did some things – "

"But you regret them" Castiel said simply. "Whatever they were, you regret them. I can see it".

Sherlock wanted to argue that regret couldn't be the answer, that it couldn't be that easy, but Cas had been an angel of the Lord. Maybe there was hope for him.

Either way, it didn't matter now. What mattered was their attempt to save Mycroft and the country.

He would have to wait until the others woke up, though.

Cas apparently thought the same, because he inquired, "What exactly are you doing?"

A few minutes later, Sherlock found himself explaining his experiment to a former angel of the Lord in his kitchen at 4.43 am. It wasn't the something he had ever expected to do – but the distraction and the company brought him peace of mind.

If only for a short while.


	9. Chapter 9

Cas didn't know anything about physics or chemistry, which surprised Sherlock. If he had indeed been an angel, he must have lived for thousands of years – at least according to the Bible which the consulting detective had read when he was a teenager – and yet he apparently had never learned anything about reactions or experiments. Even the microscope seemed to fascinate him.

It wasn't that Sherlock had never had anyone to listen to him when he explained one of his experiments; John occasionally wanted to know what he was doing, and Molly was always glad to help. But he had never seen someone who was so focused on what he had to tell them. Castiel looked him into the eyes while he talked, asked questions when he didn't understand something immediately.

He gave Sherlock the feeling that he was genuinely interested in what he was explaining. Molly knew most of what he told her because she was a pathologist, and a good one at that; John was curious because he was his friend.

Cas, however, was interested in everything. In him, in the sample, in the microscope.

It was difficult to explain, even for Sherlock.

Maybe this was one of the reasons he believed what Castiel had told him: the other man simply didn't seem like he'd lived his life on this Earth.

"And what exactly do you hope to achieve with the results of this experiment?" Cas asked as Sherlock added another chemical to another sample.

"It will help me identify the different types of acids used on dead tissue in hopes of destroying the evidence".

"And therefore you will ensure that murderers are convicted?"

"Not only murderers."

Cas nodded and stared at the microscope again.

"It is fascinating. I never met a scientist before".

"I am a consulting detective."

"As my friend Dean would say, "Close enough"" Cas answered, smiling.

Sherlock stared at the sample, not sure how to phrase his next question. Even though he was sure, for reasons he couldn't name, that the former angel wouldn't be angry, no matter what he said. Somehow they understood each other; maybe because they had both lived most of their lives without any human connection. It didn't matter.

"You are a hunter now" he stated carefully and Cas replied "Of course".

"And you haven't thought of doing something else? You could study chemistry. If it interests you that much".

Cas looked down at his folded hands in his lap. "I am aware of that" he said. "In fact, before I was courageous enough to find Dean – and Sam – I thought about it. About starting a new life. But they are my friends. I belong at their side".

Sherlock nodded, but Castiel didn't see it and continued, "Like you and John. We are parts of a whole".

"How did you meet?" Sherlock was genuinely interested, which didn't happen often, at least not with other living people. But Cas had been an angel, and he couldn't deduce him.

"I grabbed Dean tight and raised him from perdition. I met his brother soon afterwards".

"Are you saying – "

"Dean was in Hell" Cas said simply, "and it was my job, as you would say, to pull him out". He didn't elaborate, but it wasn't necessary.

Sherlock saw that he was telling the truth.

He had been convinced that Dean knew more about Hell than he let on based on his facial expression when he'd told him how long Moriarty had been there.

As selfish as it was, he couldn't help but feel that Cas might be right about him after all, if he had been to Hell.

"John had been invalided home from Afghanistan" he finally said "and he was – he wasn't doing well. A mutual friend introduced us."

Before John, he would never have considered Mike Stamford a friend – he wouldn't have considered anyone a friend. The doctor had changed him, just like saving Dean seemed to have changed Castiel.

"And since then you have been there for each other". Castiel's eyes sparkled, although something like regret dulled them, and Sherlock shook his head.

"When Moriarty was still alive – we played games. Eventually, I had to convince everyone, even my friends, even John, that I was dead. I was gone for three years".

"I know. I read the file. But you did it for their safety?" Cas' eyes stared into his.

"Yes."

"I left Dean and his brother alone for months at a time. And I certainly didn't do it so they could be safe".

They stared at each other for a moment before starting to laugh.

Perhaps that was why they understood one another. They both weren't exactly the best friends one could hope for.

Sherlock grew serious again. There was one question that had been on his mind since they left Mycroft's house, one question he didn't think Sam or Dean would answer honestly.

Cas, on the other hand –

"What if we can't trap Moriarty? What if we can't exorcise him? Is there another way to stop him?"

"Yes" Cas said slowly, completely unfazed by the change of topic, most likely because he was accustomed of doing the same himself. "We can burn his bones. It will kill him. I realized there was no mention of Moriarty's grave in the file".

"Mycroft had his body removed to "save my reputation" since he believed the discovery of Rich Brook's body" – Sherlock waited for Castiel to indicate that he remembered who Rich Brook was before continuing – "would only prove that I had been a fraud. He had him buried on a small field about two hours from here".

The former angel but didn't answer and Sherlock demanded, "What will happen to Mycroft if we burn the bones? There has to be a reason you didn't mention it before".

"When the bones of a demon are burned his vessel is destroyed" Cas answered. "If we have to resort to this, Mycroft will die".

His bluntness would have shocked anyone else, but it was fine by Sherlock. He had asked for the truth and he had got it.

"You are saying that all things considered there is a great chance my brother will die regardless" he stated and Cas nodded.

"I am sorry."

"Don't be. As long as he isn't possessed by Moriarty anymore – death is preferable."

Cas didn't flinch, didn't seem shocked, and for that Sherlock was grateful. Normal people tended to believe he didn't care whenever he told the truth.

But he did care. He had known Mycroft all his life, and despite his "betrayal" he still trusted him. And now he needed his help.

He didn't want to let his brother down. He didn't want to kill him.

"What does this do?" Cas inquired suddenly, pointing at another bottle, obviously trying to make Sherlock feel better in the most obvious way possible.

The consulting detective didn't comment on it.

If he had attempted to console someone, it would perhaps have been equally obvious.

He was still showing Castiel what he could do with the various chemicals and pieces of equipment he had when John stumbled into the kitchen. Sherlock was at his side in an instant, noted that the sun had risen, and quickly checked the time.

It was almost 8 am.

"How are you feeling?"

John blinked. "Better. The Winchesters are still asleep, I wanted to check on you".

"It's alright, John" Cas said. "I kept Sherlock company".

John blinked again, looked at Sherlock who nodded and then went to make tea, shaking his head.

"I saw you gave them Moriarty's file" he commented while putting the kettle on.

"I did. They have to know what we are up against."

"He has all the power of the British Government. Do you think he'll try to have us arrested?"

"No" Cas replied instead of Sherlock, surprising them both; solving cases, talking about criminals was so much part of their usual routine that they had almost forgotten the former angel was still in their kitchen.

Sherlock remembered he had to tell John at some point what Cas had told him in the night. He doubted it would be an easy conversation.

While they were drinking their tea – Castiel had happily accepted a cup since "he'd never tried it before", which seemed to confuse John for a moment before he remembered he was American – Sam and Dean woke up and wandered into the kitchen, rubbing their eyes.

The elder Winchester sighed when he realized they had only made tea and not coffee, but drank it nonetheless; Sam accepted his cup with a simple "Thank you".

"What do we do now?" John asked once they had all migrated into the living room since their kitchen was too small. He still looked pale, but Sherlock knew he would decline any offer of more rest.

"We could always find a secluded spot and summon him."

"Unless we could summon him directly into the Devil's trap, it wouldn't work, not according to his file" Sam reminded him, "and he doesn't have to come".

Dean sighed and looked at the table.

Sherlock's phone rang.

It was Greg. He picked up, listened for a minute, told the DI stiffly that they would be there and hung up.

He looked at the faces of his companions before explaining, "The Minister of Foreign Affairs has been murdered. The Game is on".


	10. Chapter 10

"Why would he kill a minister if he could just wait for he right opportunity to kill us?" Dean asked.

"Because he doesn't want to kills us, at least not yet" Sherlock explained, putting on his coat. "You have read his file, you know he likes to play games."

Dean obviously didn't have an answer to that, so he simply nodded.

"So what now?" Sam inquired and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"We investigate the case. Obviously".

Sam seemed confused by his calm demeanour, but Sherlock didn't have the time to care whether or not the Winchesters thought he was a machine or not.

"John and I will go to the crime scene..."

"And why can't we come with you?" Dean wanted to know.

"Because it is difficult enough to get other police men than Greg to tolerate me and John at a crime scene – and he won't be the highest-ranking officer there. This isn't just a normal murder. Somebody killed the Minister of Foreign affairs."

"We understand" Castiel replied, surprising both Sam and Dean. "We will endeavour to make your flat demon-proof in the meantime. Since Moriarty knows we are here and working together there is no reason to occupy a hotel room any longer".

"Thank you" Sherlock said; John shot him a puzzled look but nodded.

"We'll be in touch".

With these parting words, the consulting detective turned around and left.

John followed him as always.

When they were seated in a cab, driving to the mansion of Thomas Melville, Minister of Foreign Affairs, John asked, "Should we tell Greg?"

"You mean should we tell him that my brother is possessed by a demon and responsible for the Minister's murder?"

John sighed. "He's not going to believe us, is he."

"He is Mycroft's friend, possibly is only one." He didn't have to elaborate what he meant. He knew John was remembering that he had refused to believe Sherlock a fraud, just as he was. Mycroft and Greg weren't exactly as close as him and John; their relationship was built on long conversations over brandy. And Mycroft wasn't exactly someone who shared his thoughts. In fact, he was even more closed off than Sherlock had ever been.

But somehow Greg didn't mean. They had been something like comfort for each other during the time the consulting detective had been gone – regardless of what John might think, Sherlock was sure telling Moriarty his life story hadn't been easy for Mycroft – and they trusted one another.

It had certainly been Mycroft – Moriarty – to send Greg to the crime scene. He had probably considered it a proof of their friendship, when in reality –

It had been a message to Sherlock.

_See the control I have over your friend, Sherlock?_

Suddenly a thought came to his mind, and he swallowed. He should have thought about it sooner. He had let emotions cloud his judgement.

What if Greg was already possessed? What if most of his friends were already possessed? He was reasonably sure there was no demon in John – he couldn't have failed to notice – but other than that...

_That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever._

He relaxed slightly. Moriarty wouldn't enjoy playing a game he had already won by making sure each and every one Sherlock could trust was working for the other side. Becoming a demon hadn't changed the consulting criminal much.

"Do you think he left any clues behind?" John asked, startling Sherlock out of his thoughts.

"Yes I do" Sherlock answered calmly. "In fact I am rather sure we will find more than enough evidence to put an innocent man into prison."

John looked at him. "To show his superiority?"

"To show us he can do whatever he wants. I have no doubt that the new Minister of Foreign Affairs is going to be – "

"Possessed" John finished the sentence. "But why kill the Minister at all?"

"For fun" Sherlock said simply, "Plus, if we are at the crime scene, we can't help the Winchesters and Caswork out how to exorcise him".

"Cas?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He offered us to call him by his nickname".

"I'm glad you had someone to talk to" John commented, "This can't be easy for you" and the consulting detective realized his friend felt guilty because he'd slept last night.

"It isn't". There had been a time when Sherlock wouldn't have said anything else and instead concentrated on the case, but ever since he had come back, he had made an effort to let John know what he was feeling, mostly because his friend couldn't help but feel worried when he kept something from him.

"He is my brother. But we have to stop Moriarty at all costs".

John nodded. "What aren't you telling me?"

Sherlock wasn't surprised and answered, matter-of-factly, "Cas told me that, if we can't exorcise Moriarty, we can burn his bones to kill him."

"It would kill Mycroft too." It was a statement, not a question, and Sherlock nodded.

"Sherlock, I – " John bit his lip. "We won't let it get to that" he finally continued firmly and the consulting detective gave him a small smile. He knew that John couldn't know that, couldn't predict what would happen, but he felt better anyway.

They arrived at the mansion and made their way through the police cars. Donovan was standing in front of the crime scene tape. As always, she wasn't pleased to see Sherlock, but since she had made an effort to be more polite to the consulting detective since he had come back, she simply greeted them with a nod and held up the tape for them.

Greg was waiting for them in the living room where the body lay; with him was the Chief Superintendent, and Sherlock suppressed a sigh.

"Sherlock" Greg greeted them, "John. Minister Melville was found this morning by his secretary who came to check on him when he failed to keep an appointment with the Prime Minister. His throat was slit. No sign of forced entry".

There wouldn't be, not when Moriarty could transport himself wherever he wanted.

The cut was clean, precise; the victim must have died instantly.

Almost as if he had been there, Sherlock could see what had happened; Mycroft suddenly appearing in the house, Mycroft's hand clutching the blade, Mycroft pulling it over the man's throat with a smile on his lips... He took a deep breath.

"Sherlock, is everything alright?"

He looked up to find Greg looking at him with concern and John with barely hidden understanding. The Chief Superintendent stood in a corner, clearly annoyed, and Sherlock would have felt the same if he hadn't other matters to attend too.

"I'm fine" he answered coldly, "just thinking". He stood up. He knew the truth, but he also knew what Moriarty wanted him to do, and that he would have to play along for now. Until the Winchesters and Cas figured out how to send Moriarty back to Hell. If they didn't –

Sherlock didn't want to think about the alternative.

"He let the murderer in" he said even though it was not true. "It must have been someone he trusted, someone intelligent enough to avoid leaving evidence."

He already knew that there had to be something in this room that would lead the police to Melville's secretary and that Anderson or another idiot would find it eventually, but he would worry about exonerating him after they had stopped Moriarty.

He stood up.

"That will be all for now." He would have left if Greg hadn't grabbed his arm.

"Sherlock – " he was obviously going to ask for more information, but stopped when he saw Sherlock's expression and instead began, "Is this about –" his eyes darted to the Chief Superintendent, who was still fuming in a corner "about the other case?"

"In a way" Sherlock answered cryptically. "I will keep you informed."

"Sherlock – "

"I said I will keep you informed."

Greg looked at John, who shook his head, and sighed.

"Alright. Of you go. Just stay safe."

Sherlock hardly thought Greg would consider going after a demon "safe", but he certainly wasn't going to tell him that.

John followed him as always. As soon as they had left the crime scene, Donavan shooting them a curious look – apparently she realized he was acting differently, so maybe she was slightly less idiotic than he had supposed – the doctor stated, "It was him".

"Yes."

"But still – just for fun? I mean, Moriarty is certainly the type to kill for the sake of it, but – "

"John" Sherlock explained impatiently. "Think. There were no signs of forced entry. He just appeared behind Mr. Melville and slit his throat. It is another demonstration of power".

His friend understood.

"No one is safe".

"Correct".

They didn't say anything else until they arrived at 221B. They opened the front door to find a sign sprayed onto the floor.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to love that".

Sherlock shrugged. "It can't be helped. And it matches the one in front of her door, at least".

John looked over and realized that the hunters had indeed made sure Mrs. Hudson had a sign in front of her door too.

There was another one in front of their flat; others were carefully painted on the floor under the windows; and, strangely enough, salt was strewn on the window sills.

Sam was sitting on the sofa, a laptop in front of him.

"Hey John, Sherlock."

"Hello, Sam. What is all of this?" the doctor asked, gesturing towards the salt.

"It prevents demons from getting in. Even powerful ones."

"I guess the signs – "

"They are called sigils" Cas explained coming out of Sherlock's bedroom. "They serve the same purpose. Sherlock, your room should be safe now. Dean is busy with John's".

"Done!" the hunter called out at this moment. A few seconds later, he appeared in the living room.

"And not only that. We came up with a plan to trap Moriarty".

"Yes?" Sherlock asked.

"We need his bones" Sam said slowly.

"To kill Mycroft?"

Both Winchester brothers shot Cas disapproving looks. Sam sighed.

"I know you don't like the idea, but this isn't just about killing him. It's about – "

"Leverage" Sherlock said, suddenly understanding.

"Exactly" Cas confirmed. "If we find Moriarty's bones he will have to come when we call, if only to prevent us from igniting them."

John looked like he wanted to protest, but one glance at Sherlock told him not to.

The consulting detective bit his lip before asking in a determined voice, "What are we waiting for?"


	11. Chapter 11

Immediately after the door had closed behind Sherlock and John, Sam finished his tea and stood up.

"I'm going to get our stuff from the hotel and check out. No need to pay for two rooms when we stay here".

"Don't talk to strangers, Samantha" Dean replied, still busy with his tea, while Cas simply nodded.

Sam gave Dean a look that made it clear he expected his brother to talk to their friend while he was gone. They had both noticed that Cas had dark rings under his eyes and that he'd once again lost some weight in the last few weeks; the former angel still found it difficult to get used to being human, and now and then they had to remind him that he needed food and sleep.

Dean barely restraint himself from rolling his eyes, but gave him an almost imperceptible nod and Sam left.

The hunter sighed and turned around to look at Cas, who had gone in the kitchen to refill his cup and was fascinated by the kettle. He knew why Sam wanted him to talk to the ex-angel; somehow, he and Cas had always had a "more profound bond" (as Mr. I-am-going-to-empty-their-tea-stash would undoubtedly have put it, Dean preferred the more conventional "He is my best friend") than Cas and Sam, but that didn't mean he was particularly fond of heartfelt conversations.

"Dean, do you think Sherlock and John would mind if I made some more tea?"

Dean blinked. While he had seen Cas emptying the kettle, he hadn't thought he knew how to make tea.

"No, don't think so. You need help?"

"I know how to handle a tea kettle, Dean."

"Have you ever used one before?"

Cas thought, or rather pretended to think about it for a moment (Dean knew for a fact that he'd certainly never made tea before) and finally replied, "I watched John make tea".

Dean knew better than to argue with him – Cas couldn't do much damage with a kettle – and watched his first attempt at making tea.

He managed, but he certainly needed much more time than John had. Probably had something to do with the doctor being British.

Once Cas was sitting beside him on the couch again – Dean had declined his offer of another cup, he really would have preferred coffee – the hunter cleared his throat.

"Cas" he started, unsure of how to proceed.

The former angel's blue eyes stared into his green ones.

"Yes, Dean?"

"I couldn't help but notice – you didn't sleep again, did you."

Cas stared into his cup. "You know I do not like sleeping".

"It doesn't matter whether you like it or not, you need to rest, Cas". Dean said, exasperated. Castiel might already have been a human for several months when he finally found them, but he was still convinced that he should be able to control his body. Barely two months ago, he had collapsed during a hunt because he had forgotten to drink enough.

The smaller man sighed "I know" before adding stubbornly "I am feeling fine, though".

"I know you do. For the time being. But you have to promise me you'll get some rest when this is over, right?"

Cas nodded. It wasn't much, but it was something, and Dean finished his tea. He would never get used to the stuff, couldn't deny that it had woken him up, however.

"So what did you do all night anyway? Counting the stars? Reciting Neanderthal poetry?"

"I was talking to Sherlock."

Oh?" Dean didn't know what to say. The consulting detective didn't seem like a bad person, but he certainly wasn't one for talking much. And he'd hardly looked concerned when they had told him about shooting his brother.

"His experiments are very interesting. For example, he injected sulphuric acid into a sample of –"

"Thanks, man" Dean hastened to interrupt him, "I'll just imagine the gory details". He sure as hell wasn't easily grossed out, but he would rather not hear about Frankenstein's experiments if he didn't have to. "So what did you two talk about? You said you talked."

Cas bit his lip and Dean realized his friend was uncomfortable sharing.

"It's alright if you don't want to tell me" he said, trying to pretend he wasn't hurt (he was a guy, for God's sake, he shouldn't be hurt because a friend refused to tell him everything he did) but not quite succeeding, if Cas' face was anything to go by.

"That is not the problem" the former angel answered honestly. "I am just not sure if Sherlock would be comfortable with me divulging the topics of our conversation".

Another pause followed. Dean was just about to assure him that really it wasn't any of his business and that they definitely should start putting salt everywhere when Cas continued, "It was surprisingly easy."

"Come again?" Dean asked. He had seen Cas do many things he'd never done before since he'd returned to them – had even taught him to drive his baby – but he couldn't remember that he'd ever called anything "easy" before.

"Talking to Sherlock was surprisingly easy. As you know, I find it difficult to talk to hu – other people. They use too many words they don't mean, hide their true meaning behind other words, are nice to people they hate and not nice to people they like. It is very confusing". The ex-angel stared once again at his by now only half-full cup and added, "Sherlock, though – he is different. He doesn't see the necessity of social conventions either. He tells you what he thinks about you to your face. I did not have to pretend I knew anything about consoling or being there for someone and could just – talk."

Dean swallowed. He had known Cas felt uncomfortable with social interactions, had always done. It was another thing, however, to hear him talk about it.

"I did not mean that you do not understand me, Dean" Cas said decidedly, "It was just – different. That is all".

Dean nodded, reassured.

"He is not as indifferent as you might think him to be" Cas said suddenly. Thankfully Dean was used to his quick changes of topic, so he caught on.

"Sherlock? Didn't strike me as the most caring guy we've ever met".

"He doesn't show it, but he worries about his brother. He knew something was wrong before we showed up. Otherwise, he would not have believed us so easily."

That was enough for Dean. If Cas said he'd spoken to Sherlock the whole night and that he understood him and knew him to be worried, he wasn't going to question.

"Right. So – " Cas' eyes darted away too quickly and he demanded, "What aren't you telling me?"

"I – I told him that we could kill Moriarty if we burnt his bones, but that his brother would die as well".

"Why would you do that? Shooting at him is one thing, but killing him – "

"He asked" the ex-angel answered simply, "and he understands that it might be the only way to stop him."

"Good, Cas. If you say it's okay – " The hunter wasn't so sure – this was still Sherlock's brother they were talking about, and the other man had said he cared about Mycroft – but he would have to trust his angel on that one.

Having decided that this was more than enough chick-flick talk for a day – or a week – or a month – Dean stood up and walked into the kitchen.

"Sherlock didn't happen to show you where they keep the salt?"

"No" Cas replied completely serious, "I don't think he knows. John is the more domestic one of the two".

Dean decided to let this comment slide and went through the cupboards (good God, the guy sure kept weird equipment in his kitchen drawers) before he found enough salt to secure the place.

"Hope Sammy soon gets back with the spray cans. We have to paint the sigils".

"We probably should do it in front of Mrs. Hudson's door, too" Cas said. "By the looks of it, she's more or less family to Sherlock and John, and Moriarty will know that".

Dean nodded – he had grown quite fond of the old lady himself, she made one hell of a pie – and started to seal of the kitchen window with salt while Cas began working on the living room.

Sam came back ten minutes later, putting the bags on the floor.

"Hey. You got everything?"

"No. I left it in the hotel" Sam replied sarcastically before handing Dean a spray can. "You get started on the house door. I'll help Cas here".

Dean answered the unspoken question if their friend was alright with a nod and went down.

"Cas – " he started, but the ex-angel surprised him.

"I assure you that Dean already talked with me about my sleeping habits and that I am doing fine, however you should probably be aware that Sherlock knows about the possibility of burning Moriarty's bones".

"Okay" Sam said, slowly. He doubted Cas had tried to make the news easier for Sherlock in any way – not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't know how – and yet that might have been exactly what the consulting detective had needed. Sherlock was strange, but also seemed like a no-nonsense kind of guy, and he certainly hadn't treated them any differently this morning. Plus he had John. It was always good to have a friend at times like these.

"They should be back soon" he continued, "according to John's blog, Sherlock is rather quick to pick up clues at crime scenes. And this time he already knows who did it."

Cas nodded while finishing the last window sill in the living room.

"I'm going to take care of Sherlock's room" he said.

"Alright. I'm probably going to try and find out where Moriarty's buried. Even if we don't want to kill him – not yet – we can use them as leverage. If we call him and we have his bones, he'll have to show up."

"Sherlock told me where they are. Since he did so, I assume he knows there aren't any microphones in the kitchen; he didn't mention it this morning, so he's probably not sure about the living room. We'll ask him when he gets back".

With these words, Cas went into Sherlock's room – Sam hadn't even known this door went to Sherlock's room, the ex-angel must have paid better attention when John had explained where the different rooms were located – and the younger Winchester looked after him, slightly bemused. Obviously finding someone, albeit a rather weird someone, he understood and who understood him on a level no one else did had done Cas some good.

Dean came up again a few minutes later and, since Sam had decided he would try and find out more about Moriarty than what was standing in his file – mainly by going through the newspaper articles that had turned up proclaiming Sherlock to be a fraud – in the hope that a better understanding of their enemy could help them defeat him, took the rest of the salt up to John's room, but not before asking, "Did you – "

"Yeah. Said he had already talked to you".

"Yes. We did."

"Seems he and Sherlock get along quite well, huh?"

Who would have known? The genius and the angel. Just so you know, though, if Cas starts juggling around chemicals I'm going to shoot him".

The brothers laughed and went back to their respective tasks.

Sherlock and John came back a few minutes later. They quickly told them about the sigils and their plan.

"I know where Moriarty is buried" Sherlock said slowly, and John exclaimed, "You never told me that – "

"Mycroft told me after I came back. As some sort of apology, I imagine. Anyway, we have to move fast. I suggest we go get them tonight."

"Where are they? Cas didn't tell us that" Dean said.

"It will be safe to show you".

The elder Winchester had to accept that answer; Sam moved to the bag and pulled out two necklaces with small symbols carved into their pendants.

"Wear these; they'll protect you from possession".

Sherlock nodded thanks, took both, put one on and gave John the other one.

"So we wait?" the doctor asked after he'd put the necklace under his shirt.

"Yes" Sherlock confirmed and his friend nodded before answering "I am going to make tea".

Cas' eyes lit up and Dean suppressed a sigh.

He was going on a coffee binge as soon as they returned home.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock was used to waiting; for the next case, the nest proof, the next suspect.

And yet – this day proved to be the longest of his life.

Not only because they had to dig out Jim Moriarty's bones, but also because they might kill his brother. Because they might –

Mycroft had been with him all his life, no matter that he had barely been there while he had been struggling with his addiction. Mycroft had been a constant, and he might lose that constant.

And that hurt more than Sherlock cared to admit.

If killing Mycroft was the only way to stop Moriarty – to save the lives of his future victims – it had to be done; that didn't mean Sherlock would do it happily. His brother would die – die because of something that wasn't his fault, because he had been possessed by a demon –

He would become just one of the endless number of ghosts Sherlock carried around with him.

Most people assumed he didn't care when people died during his investigations, like Soo-Lin Yao, like so many others who had fallen prey to their killers while he had been chasing another lead; they were wrong.

He remembered the names of all who had died because he hadn't been fast enough, just like he remembered the names of all he had killed.

And, somehow, despite everything, the unspoken words, the bale, the betrayal, the thought that Mycroft would join their ranks was simply unbearable.

And if he truly led the hunters to Moriarty's grave –

He knew what he would do, if he were them. As soon as there would be the least danger of Moriarty breaking free from the trap, he would ignite the bones. He would kill him and his vessel.

He knew it might be necessary; knew he might have to ignite Moriarty's bones and murder his own brother to safe everyone else. That didn't mean he would allow it until the very last moment, though. He had to consider every option before taking the final step.

Mycroft, the real Mycroft, wouldn't think much of his scruples; caring had always been a disadvantage for him (at least once he'd gone to university – there were other memories Sherlock kept locked away in his mind palace – of Mycroft comforting him after a nightmare when he was four, of Mycroft telling a six-year-old everything there was to know about pirates, of Mycroft explaining to him what it meant that their father had left – memories Sherlock chose not to think about). He would scoff at the consulting detective's determination to keep him alive at all costs; would tell him his life wasn't worth risking the country for.

But Sherlock knew better.

He had learned that allowing oneself to feel emotions had a prize, in his case, three years of isolation; but he had also learned that ultimately the experience could be rewarding. Not in a way Mycroft would understand – Sherlock had never got a single piece of information because of it, nor had it helped him solve a case – but in ways he could never have imagined when he was a young boy who decided that Mycroft must be right in not calling him for three months because he simply wasn't worth it.

Mrs, Hudson bringing him tea; Greg dragging him out of the street after his fourth overdose; John bringing him to bed once when he'd been awake for almost six days; it wasn't much, but it was enough to make caring worth his while.

And even though sometimes he wished he didn't – it would certainly make things easier if he didn't - the list of people he cared about included Mycroft.

John knew what he was thinking, or rather feeling, of course; his friend had always been better at understanding emotions, and he kept bringing him tea or trying to get him to eat and rest. He didn't succeed.

Cas happily accepted every cup of tea John offered him – according to Sherlock's count, he had had fourteen since they'd returned, not to mention the kettle he'd drunk while they had been gone – and followed Sherlock with his eyes whenever he could.

Really, the consulting detective would have supposed that a former angel of the Lord would be more interested in John than him.

John was trying to make everything easier for Sherlock, which admittedly wasn't easy; normally the consulting detective liked to be left alone with his thoughts before a stack-out or an arrest, and while this situation couldn't really be compared with those, the doctor saw the signs – the tense shoulders, the frown – that told him Sherlock would prefer some peace to go to his mind palace.

More peace than two brothers who bickered almost as much as they did and a former angel who drank almost more tea than John could give him.

After about two hours of waiting, Sherlock thankfully decided not to put up with the situation any longer – John had already begun to fear he would start deducing the Winchesters, and since they needed their help, that would definitely be a bit not good – grabbed his violin and stormed into his room.

Cas, who was once again coming out of the kitchen, although this time with two cups of tea (John idly wondered who it was meant for; Sherlock's cup still stood untouched on the table, and the brothers didn't seem very enthusiastic about his favourite beverage), stared at the door Sherlock had just slammed behind him with a frown.

Dean looked up from the gun he'd been cleaning, Sam from the book he'd been reading.

"Is he alright?" the younger Winchester asked.

John sighed. He hardly thought that "alright" was the right word to describe the state Sherlock was in, but he knew what Sam had meant.

"He just needs to be alone".

Sam nodded and went back to his book while he was brother recommenced cleaning the gun; Cas offered John the other cup of tea and the doctor accepted it, surprised.

"You looked like you could use it" was all he said as he sat down again.

A moment later, the music started.

John was thankful that Sherlock was playing real music, instead of just making screeching noises, then he remembered that doing so would probably only remind him of the many times Mycroft had dropped by.

Cas tilted his head to the side and listened for a few moments before saying, "Your friend is a gifted musician".

"Yeah" Dean said, looking up from the gun. "He's great. He always does that to blow off steam?"

"Not always. Sometimes he just tortures his instrument" John replied matter-of-factly and the elder Winchester shot him a puzzled look before replying, "You're lucky. Sam just makes a bitchface and mopes, and Cas just crawls into a corner and pretends he doesn't exist".

Castiel shot Dean a look John couldn't quite interpret, and the hunter shook his head. Whatever this meant, it apparently was enough to make Cas relax again; he gave the older Winchester a small smile which he returned.

John mostly made small talk with Sam for the rest of the afternoon; Cas was happy drinking tea and Dean seemed to prefer not to have to discuss what they were going to do.

They were interrupted only once when Mrs. Hudson stormed into their flat.

"Boys, I have you have an explanation for the – thing you painted in front of my door".

"That was us, Mrs. Hudson" Cas explained, politely standing up and smiling at her. "While I cannot explain why, I assure you it was done to keep you safe. And, while we are at it, you should probably put salt on all your window sills too."

"Salt? I just dusted!" their h – landlady protested. Dean, who had thankfully put away his gun by this time, stood up too and winked at her.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, and if I promise to clean up everything once everything's been sorted out?"

John saw his landlady blush once more and barely managed not to chuckle. Dean Winchester knew how to wrap her around his little finger, there was no doubt about it.

"In that case, I guess I can make an exception. Why don't you come with me and do it yourself? To make sure I am safe? I just baked a cake..."

Dean grinned. "Whatever you wish".

A second later, they were gone, and Sam shook his head.

"There is nothing Dean wouldn't do for a slice of pie".

"Yes there is" Cas said sincerely, and neither John nor Sam knew what to say, so they left it at that.

Dean came back an hour later, happily stuffed with cake. Sam rolled his eyes but Castiel beamed as the elder hunter told him "You might be unto something with this tea time stuff, Cas".

"Oh, and she's wearing an anti-possession charm now, too. I told her it was something to remember me by" Dean added with a cheeky grin, and John decided to concentrate on the music Sherlock was playing rather than on what the hunter was saying. There were some things he didn't want to imagine.

The sun set not to long afterwards. John was relieved. The consulting detective hadn't stopped playing the whole afternoon and he was worried. As soon as dusk had settled, though, Sherlock stepped out of his room and declared that "It was time to go".

No one answered as they all grabbed their jackets and followed him. Mrs. Hudson was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, looking at Sherlock worriedly.

He managed to give her a half-smile and assure her that "all was fine, Mrs. Hudson" even though it wasn't.

They took a cab to the outer fringes of the city, having decided to walk the rest of the way; while Sherlock had texted Anthea to let her know that Mycroft was to be occupied during the next few hours, they couldn't be sure it would work.

John hadn't thought Sherlock would find Moriarty's grave immediately, hadn't believed that the British Government had told his brother everything – in fact, he wouldn't have been surprised if Mycroft had lied to Sherlock – but his friend found the spot without any problems.

Reading the unspoken question in John's eyes, Sherlock said, "I was here before".

"Why?" the doctor demanded. It was Castiel who answered.

"To make sure" he said quietly, looking at Sherlock, who nodded.

So Sherlock had been afraid that Moriarty might come back on some level. And now he had, and not only that – he had possessed his brother.

Definitely a bit not good.

John squeezed Sherlock's arm before taking one of the shovels the hunters thankfully carried with them in their bags and starting to dig. Sam and Dean helped him; Cas and Sherlock stood at the side, ready to help out should one of them show any signs of fatigue. Normally, John as well as Sam or Dean would have complained; but since they all knew that this was not the easiest time for Sherlock – even though the Winchesters had yet to see his caring side – and that, somehow, he and Cas understood each other, they didn't say anything.

"Sherlock..." Castiel almost whispered so no one else would hear, "I promise you burning the bones is our last resort. We won't do it until we have tried everything".

Sherlock wasn't surprised that Cas knew what he was thinking and nodded.

About half an hour later, Dean shouted, "Got it!"

The consulting detective and the former angel moved closer and helped their friends taking the bones out of the grave and putting them into a bag.

"So now – " John started, unsure of how to proceed.

Sherlock's eyes blazed in the darkness.

"No we summon Moriarty."


	13. Chapter 13

They arrived at 221B shortly before sunrise; Sherlock immediately went to Mrs. Hudson's door and started knocking.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, trying to stop him, "You can't just go around waking people in the middle of the night – "

"It's not the middle of the night anymore" Sherlock answered, and normally John would have explained to him that it was just an expression and that he was perfectly aware what time it was, but when he saw his friend's face he chose not to say anything.

He had only seen Sherlock look so determined once before, and he didn't want to remember. Didn't want to remember what it had led to. Three lost years. Three years full of limping and staring at walls and visiting an empty grave and barely registering that another day, another week, another month had passed.

John couldn't go through that again.

No matter what happened, he would make sure he wouldn't have to. He knew that Sherlock would do his utmost to prevent the hunters from igniting Moriarty's bones; of course he didn't want them to kill his brother.

But, if the decision had to be made –

John would burn them himself if it meant Sherlock would survive. Not because he'd never really got on with Mycroft – he hadn't understood how he could be so cold when he'd found he was the consulting detective's brother, and he would never be capable to comprehend how he could have betrayed his brother like this – even though it was true; no, the truth was that he had to keep Sherlock safe at all costs.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door in her nightie, looking sleepy and grumpy.

"Sherlock, I hope you – " she trailed off as she saw his face, just like John had done.

"Mrs. Hudson" Sherlock announced in a voice that brooked no argument, "I need you to stay in your apartment until I tell you otherwise, no matter what may happen. Even if you should hear strange voices or screams you have to keep quiet and stay in your flat, do you understand?"

"Yes" she answered, obviously confused, "but – "

"No "buts", as John would probably say. And please, wear the amulet Dean gave you. Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock grabbed her door and closed it. Then he turned around without another word and ascended the stairs, John and the others following him.

As Sherlock put his key in the look, he heard Cas say quietly, "You are concerned about her".

"Of course I am" he answered. John turned around to see the former angel nod at Sherlock's back.

Sherlock didn't say much once they were in the flat; he simply told the hunters to "paint the Devil's trap" – in neon paint that was only visible once the lights were turned off, naturally – and waited patiently as they did so. He never let the bag of Moriarty's bones out of his sight.

John tried to get him to talk, but only got an impatient wave and a grumble that told him he shouldn't be within two metres of his best friend right now. Seeing that the hunters were busy with painting the trap, he did what he did best: make tea.

He wasn't surprised that Cas was standing behind him when he turned around after putting the kettle on. The man had drunk more tea in a day than he and Sherlock usually did in a week; thankfully he always kept his cupboard well-stocked.

Castiel, however, didn't seem to be interested in the kettle; instead he was staring intensely into John's eyes.

The doctor cleared his throat, realizing that the hunter and Sherlock were more similar than he'd thought, and finally asked, "Yes?"

"It's good Sherlock has someone looking out for him" the other man answered simply; then, because the water was boiling, he reached behind John and took the kettle of.

John stared at Cas, wondering what exactly the hunter had meant, before shaking his head and leaving him to fill five cups to the brim full with tea.

"So" Dean announced just as John returned to the living room, "it's done".

John waited for the usual inquiry from Sherlock – they had painted the trap with paint that was invisible in daylight, so how could they be sure they had done it right? – but nothing came.

He prayed this whole thing would be over soon. He wasn't used to Sherlock being silent. It was just... wrong.

"I think we have everything we need to summon him" Sam mumbled. He looked up. "When do you want to start?"

"As soon as possible" was Sherlock's court answer, and the hunter nodded.

None of them would be getting any sleep if they tried, so doing it now was probably best.

Cas slowly and carefully brushed away some of the salt on one window sill while Dean scratched of a little of the sigil in front of their door.

Meanwhile, Sherlock called Anthea. He had explained during the cab ride that they needed to let Moriarty know that they had his bones, and calling Mycroft's assistant was the easiest way.

"Won't he know that this is a trap?" Sam had argued, but Sherlock had simply answered, "It's a move in the game, and he knows it".

Anthea picked up immediately.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

She was enunciating every syllable, once again proving that Mycroft had certainly chosen the right PA.

Sherlock quickly said, "We have Moriarty's bones. We know what to do" before hanging up.

As it turned out, even Sherlock had underestimated Moriarty.

"Hello again. Did you miss me?"

They turned around to find Mycroft – Moriarty – it didn't matter, Sherlock's archenemy – standing in front of the window, grinning. He slowly walked in the middle of the room, staring intently at the bag.

"Good move. A bit predictable, but then you have never been at your best when emotions are involved, have you, Sherlock? And I know you care for Big Brother here. It's so painfully obvious."

He sighed. "So, how do we do this? Do I just grab my bones and wait for the next move or do I leave a body behind? I am wondering which would be the most fun...

"You will not be able to go anywhere" Cas' calm voice said. The hunters, Sherlock and john had be focused on Moriarty, the consulting criminal on his bones, giving the former angel all the time he needed to once more seal the window of with salt.

"Should you try to leave through the door – you will find that right above it there is a Devil's trap. So" Castiel announced, steeping forward, his eyes blazing "I suggest you abomination leave Sherlock's brother now or we exorcise you."

"Well, well, well, the little one is growing up. Don't look at me like that, word travels fast in Hell. Tell me, how does it feel to have your wings clipped?"

John seemed confused, the brothers angry; Sherlock, however, was the only one who felt that Moriarty had just made a mistake.

He was proven correct when Castiel took a deep breath and clenched his fist, suddenly looking taller and strangely older.

"I live with the consequences of my actions; they are not all as bad as you might think they are". His eyes flitted over to the Winchesters.

"You, on the other hand – how long does it take for someone to be tortured to turn into a demon again? Really, you should be thankful we are here. Who wants to walk around in the World of humans as an abomination?"

Mycroft's eyes turned black again; Cas was pushed by an invisible force and pinned against the wall.

"I do not like to be insulted" he said calmly.

"Sam!" Dean called out, and the hunter started reciting the first few lines of an exorcism.

Just as Sherlock thought it was strange that the consulting criminal simply stood there, allowing it to happen –

Nothing did.

Sherlock turned around and locked his eyes with Cas'. The former angel was desperately trying to shake his head.

John followed his gaze and understood too.

"Can he – can he prevent being exorcised?"

Moriarty smiled and rolled up his right sleeve to show something that looked like a burn.

"Damn it" Dean cursed. "He locked himself into the body."

"Did you really think I wouldn't? You Winchesters don't quite hold up to your reputation, I fear – "

With a wave of his hand, Sam and Dean were thrown across the room. Sherlock was preparing to lounge at Moriarty, when John called out, "Stop it".

Sherlock saw the determination in the face of his friend. He was holding the bag in one hand and a flamethrower Sam and Dean had brought with them in the other.

"Put Cas down, too, or I swear I'll burn them."

"What, and kill the brother of your best friend? Oh, right, I forgot: soldiers are always out to kill something." Moriarty's tone was teasing, but his shoulders had tensed almost imperceptibly.

Sherlock looked at him, then at John.

If he had to make a decision –

Cas fell down on the floor.

"Castiel" Sherlock asked, "What does it mean that he has locked himself into Mycroft's body?"

"We can't exorcise him – not unless we manage to break the lock".

"It's difficult".

"Yes. It is."

"Almost impossible?"

"I am sorry". Cas' voice was full of sympathy.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

He had to save John, the Winchesters, Cas – the country.

"John" he said, "burn them".


	14. Chapter 14

For once, Sherlock had surprised Moriarty. There could be no doubt about it. And yet –

Something was wrong. Even as the consulting criminal looked worried – or as worried as he could be – there was still a certain gleam in his eyes, a gleam that told him that Jim was enjoying himself.

Sherlock had done something the consulting detective wanted him to do – again – and he was pleased.

It wasn't difficult to understand what or why.

He had once again turned Sherlock into a murderer.

The consulting detective clenched his teeth and said, slowly, "John, do it. Now".

And the doctor (who had decided he would do it if it meant saving Sherlock, the consulting detective was sure; he knew his best friend) hesitated. He hesitated for a second that seemed to stretch into eternity, and Sherlock understood that the ex-soldier was asking for permission. Despite the fact that he had told him to do it, though he knew he had to, he was still asking for permission, for one last conformation that he was doing the right thing.

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded.

Suddenly, Castiel exclaimed "Wait!"

John froze as the former angel stepped up to Moriarty, looking into his black eyes.

"You underestimate humans" he announced, "You always did".

"Oh? Giving me advice now? Come on – Castiel, was it?" – you can't honestly tell me that. I beat Sherlock – beat him twice."

"You will die" Cas said, slowly. Moriarty was completely focused on his face, on his eyes, and so he was able to fold his hands behind his back and make a stabbing motion with his left arm towards his right one. He only hoped Sherlock would understand.

Apparently he did, because suddenly the consulting detective's knees gave out and he tumbled towards the fire place, barely holding on to it.

Moriarty looked at him briefly and smiled before returning his attention to Castiel.

"So what? I have died before; and I won't go back to Hell. Oh, and Sherlock will be completely destroyed. I win".

"I beg to differ" Cas answered simply, looking at Sam, Dean and John. They seemed to understand what he wanted to do, and he quickly gave Sherlock a wave – again behind his back.

"Do you? Well that's – "

Before Moriarty could say another word, Cas lunched at him, surprising him and sending them both crashing to the floor. Sam, Dean and John immediately came to his aid. The older Winchester punched the demon in the face, slightly disorienting him; only slightly, but it gave Cas enough time to roll up his sleeve as Sam and John pinned his arms down.

"Sherlock!" he screamed. In the next moment, the consulting detective was kneeling beside him. In one quick motion, he cut through the lock charm on Mycroft's arm.

Moriarty screamed out in pain and flung them off. The knife clattered loudly on the floor.

Cas had trouble breathing after his hard landing and was trying to stand up when he saw John grapple with Moriarty on the floor. Somehow the ex-soldier managed to catapult the consulting criminal right into the demon trap.

John stayed on the floor, breathing heavily.

"John?" Sherlock asked, breathing heavily.

"I'm fine" the doctor asked. "I'll be sore for a few days, but otherwise – " he smiled.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and turned towards Moriarty.

The consulting detective wasn't looking at him, though.

He was staring accusingly at Castiel.

"A surprise attack? Causing me pain? Really? You are just as boring as the rest of them!" he whined.  
"I would have expected something different from an angel".

"I am not an angel anymore, remember?" Cas replied calmly.

Sherlock stepped towards the demon, only stopping when Dean signalled him that he was standing right before the devil's trap.

"You are right" he said slowly. "I have changed. I realized that caring is not always a disadvantage". Moriarty snickered, and Sherlock gave him a cold stare.

"If they hadn't cared, these men wouldn't have put themselves in danger just now only to save my brother. I did not expect you to understand."

Moriarty was taken aback for a moment, but then he grinned again, and Sherlock understood that it was time to tell them that all they had done had been in vain.

He had known from the beginning, when he'd learned that exorcising Moriarty only meant sending him back to Hell.

He would crawl out again. He had to be stopped at all costs.

And that meant burning his bones.

Sherlock couldn't ask John to do it. This was his brother; his responsibility.

"John, would you give me the bag and the frame thrower, please?" he asked politely.

The doctor looked at him, confused.

"Sherlock? What do you – "

"He is going to burn the bones" Cas said slowly.

John stared at Sherlock.

"He is wrong, right? You wouldn't – "

"John, if we send Moriarty back to Hell, he will only come back again. There is no other way."

"But – "

"No. It is the only way. We can't let him live, John".

Dean wanted to say something, but Sam grabbed his arm and shook his head. The elder hunter looked down at the floor and took a deep breath.

Moriarty's eyes turned black again as he grinned at Sherlock. The consulting detective opened his mouth – to tell his brother goodbye, in case he could hear him? To order the consulting criminal to leave one last time, even though it was hopeless? – but nothing came out. Because, suddenly, just like that, Sherlock looked into Moriarty's black eyes and understood.

This had never been about England. Or about Mycroft. Or even about a game.

This had always been about Sherlock.

Moriarty had been convinced from the start that he would eventually kill his brother to save everybody else. He had been convinced he would burn his bones without a second thought, just like he had almost done.

If he didn't –

If he didn't, and they only send Moriarty back to Hell, there was a chance he would come back. A chance. Not a certainty. Maybe he would be stuck there for years; maybe he wouldn't even want to come back, not after Sherlock had won the game.

Because saving Mycroft, succumbing to sentiment, meant winning the game.

Moriarty thought he wouldn't, couldn't do that.

He was wrong. He had always been wrong about Sherlock.

_I am not of the opinion that you will go to Hell._

It was time to stop listening to the demon. It was time to start listening to the angel.

Sherlock smiled. Moriarty frowned, and it almost made Sherlock laugh, because finally there was an expression on Mycroft's face he recognized.

"Sam" he inquired calmly, "would you do me the favour of exorcising this demon?"

"Of course" he answered, "It's my pleasure".

He cleared his throat and began reciting the exorcism.

" _Regna terrae, cantate Deo,_  
 _psallite Domino'_  
 _qui fertis super caelum_  
 _caeli ad Orientem_  
 _Ecce dabit voci Suae_  
 _vocem virtutis,_  
 _tribuite virtutem Deo..."_

Moriarty screamed. Mycroft's body convulsed. Black smoke escaped through his mouth.

Sherlock moved forward unconsciously, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned around to meet Cas' eyes.

Finally the smoke left through the ceiling and Mycroft collapsed. Castiel let go of Sherlock's arm and the consulting detective hastened to his brother's side. John kneeled beside him only a moment later. He took Mycroft's pulse and sighed. He nodded.

Sherlock let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"You alright?" Dean inquired, and Sherlock needed a moment to understand that he meant him.

"Yes" he said, "yes, of course".

"Why did you do it?" the elder Winchester asked. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad we don't have to hide a body, but still – you seemed dead serious when you told John to burn the bones."

"I was" Sherlock answered, his gaze still focused on Mycroft. "But if he had, Moriarty would have won by causing me pain. I won by allowing emotions to cloud my judgement." Realizing that the hunter probably didn't understand his answer, he added, "It's not always a bad thing".

"No" Cas confirmed, kneeling down beside Mycroft too, "It isn't".

Sam and Dean didn't say anything – Sherlock suspected that they did so not because of his answer, but because of Castiel's reaction; he didn't care either way – and the consulting detective looked at the former angel, waiting for –

He didn't really know what he was waiting for. John had already confirmed Mycroft was alive, so –

Cas smiled. "He is going to be okay. He just needs rest". He paused for a moment before continuing, "And a lot of tea".

And all of a sudden they were laughing. Sherlock didn't know why – but it felt good. He could hear Sam and Dean trying to catch their breaths right behind him, John was shaking next to him, Cas' pale face was flushed, and he couldn't stop himself.

Their laughter was interrupted when a voice croaked, "Sherlock?"

"Mycroft!" he exclaimed, for once not caring to hide the worry or relief in his voice.

The elder Holmes – his brother – opened his eyes.

"He is gone" he announced, his voice shaking.

"We know – "

"I was awake – sometimes – I think he wanted me awake now and then – when he – when he killed the Minister of Foreign Affairs –" Mycroft took a deep breath and when he resumed, his voice shook even more than before "When he played games with you".

"You shouldn't talk" John stated calmly, once again taking Mycroft's pulse.

"We should get him to bed" he added. Immediately, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's wrist. Unaccustomed to such a display of trust in him, the consulting detective needed a moment to assure him "It's all fine. I am staying".

Mycroft nodded and closed his eyes.

Sherlock, John and the hunters brought him to bed in Sherlock's room. The elder Holmes fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

"I'll watch over him" John said determinedly. Sherlock wanted to protest, but the doctor waved him away.

"You haven't slept in days. Take my bed. I'll call you if anything happens".

Sherlock supposed he could always sneak back into the room later. John was sure to fall asleep within the next hour anyway. Sleep was the last thing on his mind. Not after a night like this.

Sam and Dean passed out on the sofa not ten minutes later.

Cas looked at Sherlock.

"Sherlock – "

"Yes?"

"I know we are supposed to rest – but you didn't finish your experiment yesterday".

Sherlock smiled and led the way to the kitchen. They could sleep once everything had gone back to normal, or as normal as their lives could be.

The others slept through the night; Sherlock checked on Mycroft on John – the one fast asleep on the bed, the other in the chair – regularly.

He let Anthea that all was well, and could have sworn she started crying as she hung up.

Mycroft was the first one to wake up the next morning.

Sherlock had been waiting for his bedroom door opening since the sun came up. About an hour later, it happened.

Mycroft slowly made his way out of the bedroom, clutching at the wall.

Sherlock quickly took his arm; Cas came to his aid.

"John is still asleep" Mycroft mumbled.

"As you should be" Sherlock answered sternly, and his brother gave him a half-smile.

"I'd rather have a cup of tea".

"See?" Cas asked excitedly, and Sherlock flashed him a smile before they helped Mycroft into the kitchen and the former angel enthusiastically started to make tea.

He purposefully turned his back to the brothers to give them some privacy.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, for once unsure what to say. He was taken aback when Mycroft cleared his throat and said, "Thank you".

"You're welcome".

"No" Mycroft shook his head. "You could have killed Moriarty. You chose not to; you chose to save my life. It wasn't – it wasn't what I would have done."

"I am aware" Sherlock said, his voice neutral. There was no need to explain; there was no need to apologize. He knew his brother, and he knew he regretted giving Moriarty the information, and it was enough simply because it had to be.

Mycroft quickly took his hand and squeezed it before taking the cup of tea Cas offered him with a smile.

They drank their tea in silence until John called out "Sherlock?" in a panicked voice, waking up Sam and Dean.

And then there was Mycroft trying to thank them and offering them even more money than Anthea had promised and Dean looking at Sherlock and declining the money as well as the thanks, much to Sam's surprise, and Cas standing around saying nothing and John shooting the former angel and the consulting detective glares because he realized they hadn't slept.

The hunters said goodbye after a last cup of tea, even though John made them try to stay.

While Dean was busy telling him that, yes, "he wasn't looking forward to the flight", but they wanted to get home, and Mycroft called Anthea to book them tickets, Cas looked at Sherlock and held out his hand.

"It was a pleasure to meet you".

Sherlock took the offered hand and shook it.

"You too."

They smiled at each other, no other words needed, and walked up to the others.

"Thank you" Sherlock said.

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah, well – all part of the job, you know".

"Don't hesitate calling us if anything seems weird" Sam added.

John laughed. "I assume you mean "weirder than usual. Don't worry, we will".

"And if you should ever stumble on a real case, I would be happy to help out" Sherlock said, and Dean chuckled.

"You'd be surprised, but it happened already. Anyway, time to go".

Cas was the last one to leave.

He turned around at the door, looking at the three of them.

"You are a lucky man, Sherlock Holmes. Never forget that".

"So are you" Sherlock replied, honestly, and Cas' eyes sparkled.

"I suppose I am. My Father works in mysterious ways".

Then he was gone and John sighed.

"Should I ask?"

"You can" Sherlock answered, "but I don't think you would believe me."

"After all I have seen in the past few days, I doubt it..." John trailed off and looked at Mycroft. He cleared his throat.

"But, really, let's talk about this later. I'll tell Mrs. Hudson that everything is alright and that we – yes, we, Sherlock – will clean the floor".

He went downstairs.

Mycroft looked at his brother.

"Your friend is not the subtlest of man".

"He never has been".

"True. Sherlock – " Mycroft searched for the right words, now that they were alone.

"Thank you for not giving up on me".

"You didn't give up on me either" Sherlock replied. "You wouldn't have kept my phone for a whole year otherwise".

They smiled at each other.

It wasn't much, it wasn't a tearful reconciliation, but it was enough.

Even if Moriarty came back. Even if they still had to prove Mr. Melville's secretary was innocent. Even if they would still bicker, Sherlock calling Mycroft out on his weight, Mycroft forcing Sherlock to take cases.

They had taken on a demon, they could take on everything else.

Fighting together, like brothers were meant to be.


End file.
